Glass Heart
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: Breaking the memory charm cast on Hermione's parents reveals a shocking truth about their identities—and, in turn, her own—and unexpectedly makes her the guardian of a most unique and powerful artifact. When she and Draco start growing closer, can she be sure it's her heart he's after and not the one she now protects? *SPORADIC UPDATES*
1. The Mark

**THIS IS A REPOST.** I originally posted this fic a while back, pulled it because all my Dramione-inclusive plunnies died on me. But now they've been stirring back to life, so I decided to give them second chance.

Those who read these works before my mass Dramione Deletion (or who read these works in my Unfinished Dramione PDF), please note that aside from minor changes and editing fixes, the content of the previously posted chapters has not changed. All returning Dramiones will be updated weekly until all previously-available chapters are posted. At that point, the fics will continue until completion, but will fall under my 'sporadic updates' label. Feel free to reference my profile, PM me, or ask in your review and I'll get back to you ASAP, if you'd like a list of which other titles are (or may be) returning.

* * *

 **Disclaimer** **:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ , or any affiliated characters, and make no profit, in any form, from this fic.

 **Author's Note** **:** A portion of this fic's plot is [loosely] based on the manga _Heart no Diamond_ by Mayu Shinjo.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

The Mark

Hermione paced the kitchen of her family's home, every inch of her feeling the sting of pins and needles. Wincing as she shook her head at her own anxiety, she clasped her hands in front of her mouth and pivoted on her heel, starting across the tiled floor, again.

With a groan, Harry dropped his head against the counter of the kitchen island. "Hermione, you're making me dizzy. _Please_ , stop."

"I can't help it, Harry," she said, taking a moment to chew on her nails. "I'm just _so_ nervous about this. What if something goes wrong with fixing their memories? Or—or what if I did something wrong with the memory alterations, and took the memories _away_ , instead of just changing them?"

His shoulders slumped. Well, now she was just working herself up into a right panic, wasn't she?

Heaving a weighted sigh, Harry stood from the bar stool where he'd perched and crossed the kitchen. When Hermione didn't seem to notice his proximity, he stepped directly in front of her, forcing her to halt.

She blinked startled chestnut-colored eyes at him. "What? What!"

Her panic drew an unintended laugh out of him as he said, "Do you trust Kingsley?"

"Of course."

"And do you think there is the slightest chance that you— _you_ , Hermione Granger—would have cast a sloppy, careless, or imperfect, memory-altering charm on your own parents?"

Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slow as she allowed his words to sink in. He was right, of course. She'd studied and prepared, and angsted for _weeks_ leading up to that moment. There was no way she _hadn't_ cast the charm perfectly.

"No," she said, finally, that single word toneless.

She let her frame slump as he clamped his hands over her forearms and guided her backward to deposit her on the stool he'd just vacated. She turned on the seat, bracing her elbows on the counter. "I just . . . I know I shouldn't say this, but I wish Ron was here."

Harry cringed as he rounded the island to sit across from her. "I know I shouldn't say this, but . . . if you wanted him here, maybe you shouldn't have broken up with him."

Scowling, she fixed him with a lethal glare. It wasn't enough that she'd had to put up with a Howler from Ron's Mum? Small blessing that the remaining Weasleys still seemed to like Hermione, just fine.

"Maybe I wouldn't have broken up with him if he hadn't tried to tell me who I can, or can't, be friends with!"

Harry's face fell. "Hermione, be fair. You're talking about Draco Malfoy."

"Exactly, Harry!" She frowned, the venom draining from her expression. She never could hold her anger at him very long. "It's _Malfoy_. And I wasn't _trying_ to be friends with him, I only owled him—at Professor McGonagall's request—to see how his family was handling after the War. That's _all._ New school term is in a few weeks and she said it'd be nice if we _all_ started our final year _at least_ not at odds with one another, or it would be as though nothing's changed."

Shrugging, she picked at the edge of the counter with the tips of her half-bitten-down nails. "And I agree with her. But making a kind gesture does _not_ mean I was trying to be his new best friend, or anything!"

"I don't _dis_ agree, but you know how Ron is."

Hermione couldn't help a mirthless laugh at that. "Yes, and he knows how _I_ am, and _he_ should know to trust me by now. That he _doesn't_ is why I can't be with him. We've been through too much together not to at _least_ expect that sort of confidence in one another."

Nodding, Harry couldn't think up an argument against that. She was right. It _did_ seem like Ron always expected that it didn't matter if he said or did something hurtful, because Hermione would eventually forgive him. Well, that was certainly one notion that had blown up in his face.

"I didn't mean I wish he was here as my boyfriend, Harry. I meant I wish he was here, with _us_ as our friend, like we used to be." She suspected that Ron wasn't pleased that Harry took her side.

She wasn't about to ask whether or not he thought _this_ was why Ron wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts with them in September. Neither of them wanted to think about the answer.

They both started at a knock from the backdoor.

"Oh my God, _finally_ ," Hermione said, the words tumbling out in a breathless whisper as she popped off the bar stool and hurried across the kitchen.

"Mum, Dad!" She spoke as she pulled open the door, but only Kingsley Shacklebolt stood before her.

For a few heartbeats, she couldn't make sense of the severe expression gracing his normally kind face. She leaned past him, peering around the dark-skinned wizard's towering frame. Her breath seemed to rattle in her lungs as she forced herself to exhale.

Stepping back again, she met his gaze. "I don't understand." Hermione could feel it as Harry moved up to stand at her elbow. "Where are my parents?"

"You need to come with me. Miss Granger, there has been a . . . complication."

She didn't know how she managed to keep from sagging back against Harry—her legs felt as though they'd go out from under her at any moment. "They're all right, aren't they? You did find them—you told me you found them! You would _tell_ me if something was wrong!"

There she was, panicking again. Harry shifted to stand beside her, slipping a supportive arm around her shoulders.

Kingsley held up both hands in a placating gesture, sympathy leaking into his jet eyes. "Yes, I would. We did find them, as I assured you. And they are all right. They are at the Ministry. I . . . I am reluctant to say more until we arrive there."

Hermione didn't like his tone. And she didn't like uncertainty—especially not this much of it—but she doubted she'd get more out of the new Minister of Magic if he didn't wish to divulge any further details. She could feel her eyes well up from the frustration of it all, and she very much didn't like _that_ , either.

Forcing out a trembling breath, she said, "Harry?"

"It's going to be okay, Hermione," Harry answered with a nod, tightening his arm around her. "C'mon. Let's just go see what this is about."

Sniffling she nodded, blinking to keep her tears at bay.

* * *

When Hermione arrived at the Ministry's in-house infirmary, all that kept her from running to her parents was the large hand clamped firmly on her shoulder. She supposed she should be glad they weren't at St. Mungo's—that would signal something _very_ wrong with them.

Her mum and dad lay on side-by-side gurneys, unconscious as a small handful of wizards and witches worked on them.

"I don't understand what's happening."

Kingsley's mouth pulled into a frown as he looked down at her. Perhaps she _didn't_ know why this was proving such a task, after all.

He leaned down, meeting her gaze. "Miss Granger, did you, in _any_ way, lock the charm you placed on your parents' memories?"

Swallowing hard, Hermione exchanged a worried glance with Harry. "No, of course not! Why would I?"

Kingsley's massive shoulders slumped. "It was thought, perhaps, if you did not survive the War, you would want lessen the risk of them accidentally remembering you, without taking their memories, entirely."

"I swear, I did no such thing!" Her lower lip trembled and her fists shook at her sides. "Now, _please_ , tell me what's going on!"

"Your parents are _fighting_ against the repair of their memory alterations."

After a moment of reminding herself to breathe, Hermione looked past the Minister. Her parents appeared so peaceful under the effect of the sleep spell that she knew had been cast to make the return of their memories a more seamless transition.

Could they really be struggling when they looked so docile?

"Is that even possible?" Harry asked from beside her, taking the question right out of her mouth.

"We had thought not, but now . . . ?"

She leaned against Harry as she kept watch on the sleeping couple. "But they'll be all right, though, won't they?"

Kingsley's frown deepened. He wanted to tell the young witch _yes_ , but he wasn't at all certain about anything in this situation.

Hermione lurched forward a little, one hand clutching at the front of her shirt. The commotion from the couple further inside the room was the larger spectacle, however, drawing everyone's attention in that same instant.

Her mother and father sat up on their gurneys, looking about and babbling questions faster than anyone could form answers. Her father's voice, sharper and more commanding than she'd ever heard it, was a welcome relief, even as he persisted, "Who are you people? Where are we? Where _is_ our daughter?"

Pushing away from Harry and Kingsley, Hermione forgot the burning in her chest as she hurried into the room. "I'm here! I'm here!" She all but collapsed as she knelt before them, dropping her head down on her mother's knees as she hugged the older woman.

The silence that wound the room was heavy and strained, before her mother said, "Hermione? Is it _really_ you?"

Laughing as she sniffled, Hermione raised her head. "Of course it's _me_ , Mum! Oh, _God_ , you have no idea how much I missed . . . ." Her voice trailed off and her breath caught in her throat.

Forcing another sniffle, Hermione wiped her eyes with the back of her hand to clear them. The woman staring back at her was _not_ Deidre Granger. There was a resemblance, but . . . her mother's eyes were brown, _not_ blue . . . her mother's tumbling locks were dark mahogany, not the deep wood-brown of this woman's hair.

And where was the smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of her nose that Hermione so adored?

"You're not my mother!"

"Hermione, don't be absurd. You're simply in shock," the woman said, a gentle smile curving her lips. She placed her hands on Hermione's shoulders, but the young witch was still too taken aback to respond to the touch. "Let me look at you. You're _so_ grown up! Merlin's beard, how much time have we lost?"

Shaking off the woman's hands, Hermione repeated herself. "You're _not_ my mother!" She'd just said _Merlin's beard_ , for pity's sake!

"Hermione, dear, I know this is not the way this was supposed to happen, but you will _not_ speak to your mother in that tone!"

Hermione turned her head to look at her father, then. The grey-green eyes she remembered were now brown, the sandy hair turned rich blue-black.

She fell backward from her kneeling position, landing hard on her bum. There was only the most fleetingly awareness through her of the sensation of bodily contact as Harry stooped down beside her, looping a supportive arm around her shoulders.

"And just who the bloody hell are _you_?" she demanded as she stared at the man who sat in her father's place. This _didn't_ make sense! _Why_ couldn't she make sense of what was going on? She'd looked into this room moments ago and _seen_ her parents lying in here.

How had this happened? Had the Ministry made some sort of mistake?

The woman shook her head as her eyes grew misty. "I don't understand, Warn; _why_ is she so confused? Albus should've told her by now!"

"Warn?! My father's name is _William_!" Hermione spoke from between clenched teeth—they didn't even have the names right! "And Albus Dumbledore is _dead_!"

Harry watched as the couple exchanged a shocked glance at Hermione's declaration about Dumbledore. He studied their faces as they began to fret, visibly, about whatever had gone wrong with their situation.

 _Warn_ had that same little crescent scar on his chin as William Granger had— the one Harry hadn't even noticed until the year before Hermione'd sent them off to Australia. His hairline fell in the same, slightly off-center widow's peak. The woman had the same ski-slope nose, and her eyes were the same wide almond shape as Hermione's mum.

"Albus Dumbledore is dead," he repeated, pulling their gazes to him. "The Second Wizarding War—"

" _Second_?" the woman echoed, the word tumbling from her in a startled whisper. "A _second_ war? Oh, dear Lord . . . ."

"Voldemort . . . ." He paused, observing the way they both winced as he spoke the name. Oh, _God_ , he hated when he was right . . . . He hated even more when Hermione was too emotional to think—a thing that happened _so_ rarely that he once hadn't thought it even possible. "Is dead. _Truly_ dead."

A smile broke over the woman's face and her eyes watered. "Then we _are_ free!" She looked to her husband, once more. "We needn't hide any longer."

Hermione was numb in Harry's embrace as she darted her gaze from the woman, to Warn, and back. She couldn't think . . . she didn't know what to do in situations where she couldn't think. _Breathe, Hermione, breathe._

"Please, _please_ , someone tell me what's going on!" If she didn't get answers soon, she was _going_ to draw her wand and start blindly hexing people!

"Hermione," the woman said as she slid down from her gurney to kneel in front of the bushy-haired young woman. She tried not to frown at the way Hermione recoiled. "Listen very carefully, we _are_ —"

Hermione gasped, again clutching at her shirt. There was that searing sensation she'd been distracted from a few minutes earlier—was it _really_ only a few minutes? It felt like so much more time had passed.

"Not again," she said in a pained murmur.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

She met Harry's concerned gaze as she shook her head. "I don't . . . ." Her voice trailed off as she pulled the neck of her shirt down. There, above her left breast . . . . "What the bloody hell is _this_ , now?"

The woman blinked a few times as she looked at the small, heart-shaped mark—it looked rather more like a smudge of blood than a strawberry mark—before she turned her gaze to her husband. He, in turn, pulled aside the neck of his own shirt and peered down at his chest.

"The mark's been transferred," he said as he looked up, again. "It's chosen its new protector."

Hermione's jaw dropped and her eyes widened. Protector? Of _it_? What the hell was _it_?

The woman reached out, curling gentle hands around Hermione's shoulders—the girl was too out of sorts to push her way, just now. "Hermione, you knew us by other names, but we are Warn and Dahlia Dagworth—"

"Dagworth?" Hermione's brow furrowed as her brain kicked into action. She'd heard that name before. Professor Slughorn! During her first potions lesson with him, he'd asked if she was related to someone by that name.

"As in Hector _Dagworth_ -Granger? The founder of The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

Harry felt a little bit of relief flood him as Hermione's usual _I was curious about the mention, so I researched it_ habit reared its head. She was coming back to herself, the shock to her system was probably just too much, even for her.

Dahlia took a deep breath and let it out slow. "Yes. Hermione," she said, trying once more and forcing a smile unto her lips. "We _are_ your parents. And there is _much_ we have to discuss."


	2. The Truth

**Draco will make his entrance in the next chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

The Truth

"The Dagworth line has always been one of explorers, and discoverers," Warn said, his gaze on the floor as he addressed his now-grown daughter. They sat in the privacy of the new Minister's office, while said Minister and the young man waited just outside. That young man looked so oddly familiar, but Warn could not put his finger on precisely why, just now. Likely the traumatic experience of returning so unexpectedly.

Neither man had wanted to go, but once Warn and Dahlia had assured them documents verifying their identities would be turned over shortly—and reminding them that Hermione had her wand, while he and Dahlia did not—they complied.

"Our family's greatest legacy, my father liked to say, was our thirst for knowledge for the sake of knowledge."

Hermione's brows pinched together as she nodded, muttering under her breath from between pursed lips, "That certainly explains a few things."

"Shortly after you were born," Dahlia cut in, pausing a moment to clear her throat as she wrung her hands in her lap, "we came into possession of a rather rare, rather . . . _special_ artifact. One of your father's uncles had discovered it, and willed it to him upon his own death. An item of legend that wasn't supposed to even exist, in fact. We were in fear of what He Who . . . ." She paused again, this time needing to swallow and press past her fear. "V—Voldemort would do if he learned of this artifact."

"I still don't understand." Hermione shook her head. She didn't want to make this easy for them. She wanted _every_ tidbit, _every_ tiny, minute detail. She wanted them to want her forgiveness for doing this to her _so_ badly that there would be _nothing_ they would not tell her. "Why go to this length to hide a _single_ artifact? Even the Deathly Hallows were not so guarded."

"Wait—the Deathly Hallows are real?" Warn . . . her _father's_ eyes had shot wide at the mention.

Hermione held up her hands as she shook her head. "It is a long, _long_ story that I really don't wish to get into right now, as _I_ am the one who is owed an explanation, not _you_." She folded her arms across her chest and arched a brow at them.

"Well, she certainly has your temper, my dearest."

Dahlia narrowed her eyes at her husband's jibe.

He just as quickly cleared his throat and nodded. "This single artifact is so important, because it could have given him _exactly_ what he wanted. He could have had the whole of the Wizarding world on its knees before him in the blink of an eye."

Brows shooting up her forehead, Hermione breathed out a simple, "Oh."

"We had not chosen either side, you see. The War, the Darkness . . . you were only an infant, and it was so very dangerous that we did not want to get involved at _all_." Giving a sniffle that sounded far more aristocratic than any sniffle ought to—though, Hermione was probably imagining that, given her new view on her parents—Warn continued, his expression grave. "We knew that if Voldemort learned of its existence, he would do whatever it took to possess it. And probably punish us for not joining him from the start, for not simply giving it to him. We dreaded to think what would have happened to you, then."

Hermione took a deep breath, but kept her features carefully schooled. She didn't know if she applauded their resolve in not choosing a side for her sake, or thought them cowards. Either way, she refused to let them make her feel sympathetic toward them—they hadn't the foggiest idea what she'd been through in their long absence.

"Had I been killed, you would have become its next protector, but you were far too young, you could not defend yourself. Voldemort was so very evil that we did not think he would have any compunction, whatsoever, about murdering a child."

At that, Dahlia reached for her husband's hand with trembling fingers—a gesture not unnoticed by their daughter.

Unable to help herself from reacting, then, Hermione glanced toward the door, where Harry waited beyond. They didn't know Voldemort _had_ tried to murder a child. They didn't know any of the circumstances surrounding his fall, or the Second War . . . . They must've believed that waking as their true selves had only meant _the_ War, the one they remembered raging eighteen years ago, had finally ended.

"We thought if he couldn't find us, then he couldn't find _it_ ," Dahlia said, a telltale sheen in her blue eyes. "We hid the artifact, and then Albus altered our memories, effectively removing any awareness of its hiding place. He changed our lives into those of common Muggles. Some sort of . . . physicians, I believe?" She shook her head, as though to clear it. "He did _extensive_ research on the matter for the sake of our subterfuge, in fact. I can only assume we followed the path he set before use in that regard. We _all_ knew you would likely find your magic at the proper age, and it was up to him, when your name appeared before him, to keep the ruse going, in case it was still unsafe for you to be known. And Barty assisted of course; he was our man in the Ministry. He hid all documents pertaining to our family, and our wands, but Albus was the _only_ one who knew the identities we were assuming. As far as the rest of the Wizarding world was concerned, we simply fled the War, destination unknown."

Crinkling the bridge of her nose, Hermione darted her gaze about. Barty Crouch, too? If not for her choice to alter their memories, this all might not have come out, at all, being that the only two who knew anything about this were both dead.

Warn judged the expression on her face, his jaw falling a bit as his brows drew upward. "Barty is dead too, isn't he?"

"You'd better hope he told someone where those documents are," Hermione said with a shrug. She could only guess that Granger was probably the name chosen _because_ it was tied to the Dagworth family, at least in a historical context, thanks to her several-times-great uncle, Hector.

"The new Minister seems like a capable man. I'm certain once he has all the information, he will be able to figure out something to locate them."

Nodding, but still feeling a bit numb, Hermione met Dahlia's gaze, then. "So what is this artifact?"

"Not here," the older witch said, shaking her head. "When we get home, we will _show_ you."

"For the last . . . Merlin, just how long has it been?"

"Eighteen years," Hermione said, holding in weighted sigh.

Warn ran a hand down his face. "So much time lost." He cleared his throat and started again, "For the last eighteen years, it needed no protector, because no one could find it. Yet, the moment we remembered ourselves, it claimed you, because in that moment, _its_ existence was remembered, too."

"So the artifact is sentient?"

"In the way certain magical items are, of course," Dahlia supplied with a quick side-to-side bob of her head.

Hermione stood, then, eager to get started on the explanation to Kingsley so they could be on their way home when she realized . . . . "When you say _home_ , you don't mean the house where I grew up; you couldn't. It's a plain Muggle house, in a plain Muggle neighborhood."

Dahlia looked confused as she said, "We mean Dagworth Estate, of course."

Forcing an unexpected gulp down her throat at that, Hermione understood what she'd really been dreading. Her entire life was changing, and she didn't know how to stop it.

She dropped her gaze to the floor, then, blinking rapidly to keep a sudden wash of tears at bay. "I'd like to ask something of you both, after this is all sorted and we're settled and everything."

"Anything, darling," Warn said, and Hermione found it even more crushing how eager he seemed to offer his daughter some unknown thing.

They wanted to know her, and she understood now what they'd done, and why, but . . . . She could not move forward, not like this. William Granger had always called _his_ daughter sweetheart, not darling, and that difference was like a fist around her heart.

Letting out a harsh breath, she said, "I'd like to have a service . . . . For William and Deidre Granger."

Warn and Dahlia exchanged a glance. "But, Hermione, they were never really—"

"Please save whatever you're about to say," Hermione muttered from between clenched teeth. "They may not have existed outside of your ruse . . . but they were real to _me_. For eighteen years _they_ were my parents. They were the ones who raised me, and taught me, and loved me. And I'll _never_ see them again."

Dahlia's heart broke at the sound of unshed tears clogging her daughter's throat. Of course, they should've understood right away, but they were just too relieved to be with her, again.

Returning this way—with her having no foreknowledge of their circumstances—probably _was_ the same as the parents she'd known dying on her.

"Of course," she said, sniffling as she nodded. "In fact, there is a small chapel on the Estate grounds you may use, if you like."

Hermione recognized Dahlia's meaning. "So you'll let me do this, by myself?"

Dahlia gave a half-shrug. "We did not know them; our participation would be . . . inappropriate, at best."

Nodding, Hermione said, "Thank you for understanding." Her voice broke on that last word, and she hurried from the room.

Warn turned to his wife as they stood, as well, lifting a hand to wipe her eyes. "I don't think we could have expected a better response, under the circumstances."

Harry gave a start as the office door was flung open and Hermione burst into the corridor.

"Woah, woah," he said, catching her by the elbow and swinging her around. "Hermione, what—?"

She threw her arms around his neck as she sobbed. "I'm sorry, Harry. You know I don't like to do this, but—"

"Harry?" Warn's voice from the office doorway cut her off. "That's why you look familiar! You must be James and Lily's boy. They had mentioned wanting to name their child Harry! How are they?"

Hermione winced. Of course! She was nearly a year older than Harry, they probably had gone into hiding just around the time Lily had given birth.

Harry glanced from the weeping witch in his arms to the couple in the doorway, and back. "Still have a bit of explaining to do, huh?"

Letting her head fall back, Hermione made an unattractive groaning noise in the back of her throat.

"Now," Kingsley broke in, sensing this the perfect moment for a change in subject. "About those documents . . . ?"

* * *

Hermione was a little ashamed that she'd not thought to simply ask the portrait of Barty Crouch that hung in the corridor, right outside his old office. Upon seeing Dahlia and Warn Dagworth standing before him, he confided the information to them, directly.

Harry hung back from Kingsley and Hermione's parents as they looked over the scrolls. "You've been a pure-blood all along." He looked at his best friend. "How do you feel about that?"

She held up a hand and shook her head. " _Please_ , Harry. One meltdown at a time."

* * *

Assured that she would be allowed to return to the home _she_ remembered to retrieve her things once her parents introduced her to her ancestral one, Hermione accompanied them to Dagworth Estate. With Harry in tow, of course.

There was no missing the look Dahlia and Warn shared at her insistence on bringing the young man along. Oh, well. It was hardly as though they'd be the first people to guess wrong about her relationship with Harry Potter.

As they did not know where they were going, Harry and Hermione had to trust Dahlia and Warn to Apparrate them to the Dagworth property. That would be the only feasible manner of travel until the Estate was reconnected to the Floo Network, anyway.

Hermione's eyes were closed as she appeared on the property line. A gentle elbow in her ribs from Harry forced her to open them—not that she'd wanted to. She wasn't entirely sure she was ready to accept this.

Whatever happened to baby-stepping people into things?

When she found herself staring out into an empty field—a rather large empty field—surrounded by a lush wooded area, she nodded. "I get it," she said as her parents prepared to explain.

Of _course_ they'd gone to the trouble to hide the buildings, themselves. There was probably even a charm on the area to redirect potential visitors, so that even those who'd been to the property before would not be able to stumble in and accidentally dispel the enchantment.

She knew all this, already, because it was precisely what she'd have done.

"The place must be in awful disarray by now," Hermione said in a stage whisper to Harry.

"Nonsense," Warn replied, distracted as he watched Dahlia work the dispelling. "Our elves didn't know where we were going, nor for how long, so we left them two instructions. Care for the Estate, and care for themselves, until we returned. Elf magic would make coming and going as they needed for such maintenance possible."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "And now I have house elves. Fan _tastic_."

Her father arched a brow. "You dislike elves, darling?"

"I like elves very much," she said, forcing a smile as she corrected him. "What I don't like is having them _serve_ me."

The wizard pursed his lips as he thought. "Well . . . one problem at a time, I suppose."

"Look at that, you _are_ related," Harry whispered in her ear.

Frowning, Hermione elbowed him in the side. He made a pained sound—which put a genuine smile on her face for the first time all day—just as the enchantment fell away.

"Oh, dear God," she said, her voice a breathless thread of sound.

The sprawling Victorian home before them put Malfoy Manor to shame. And not simply because of its gorgeous white marble edifice with blue-grey trim, rather than the bleak magnificence of Draco's home, no. This place was _enormous._

She stepped up to the gate as Warn pushed it open for them, uncertain how she was even moving—she didn't recall telling her legs to walk. There was actually a fountain in _front_ of the manor!

Hermione swallowed hard as she continued forward on her still numb, but still-somehow-moving, feet. "So Dagworth would be . . . not _just_ Dagworth, but the Most Ancient and Noble House of Dagworth?"

Dahlia cast a curious glance over her shoulder as she gave an easy smile and shook her head. "Of course it would, darling."

Harry watched Hermione's face from the corner of his eye all the while, so he couldn't _not_ notice when she finally froze in her tracks. Pivoting on his heel to face her, he gripped gentle fingers around her hands.

"Okay, breathe . . . breathe . . . ." He inhaled and exhaled with her, hoping to _hell_ she wasn't about to hyperventilate on him. "One meltdown at a time, remember?"

Nodding, she forced herself to calm down. She could do this. She'd been through so much the last few years, a _simple_ thing like finding out her entire life was a lie should be a bloody cake walk!

That dose of anger helped alleviate her anxiety and she nodded, again. "Thanks, Harry."

When they turned their attention back to her parents, Dahlia and Warn were not heading up the wide, twisting steps to the front doors. They were, instead, rounding to the side of the massive home.

"Uh, Mum, Dad?" Hermione called, her brows high on her forehead.

At the informal titles, Dahlia and Warn exchanged a glance. "Oh, that is simply adorable, isn't it?" her mother asked.

Warn grinned as he nodded. "Yes, I think I rather like it."

Hermione, in turn, whispered to Harry, "They honestly expected me to call them Mother and Father. Unbelievable."

He shrugged, surprised that she was surprised. "Well, you know, Most Ancient and Noble, and all that."

Sighing, she gave herself a shake and continued after her parents. Around the manor, to the back, through the gardens, and finally into a gazebo that seemed like it could fit her entire year from Hogwarts.

Warn crossed to one column, in particular and waved his wand. A small square in the floor before it vanished to reveal a dark space.

"I don't understand," she said as she watched her father reach into the darkness. "If the house was hidden, why not keep the artifact there?"

Dahlia shrugged. "So the elves would not endanger themselves by chancing upon it."

Hermione's face fell.

"Wow, so that's where you get it from."

Shoulders drooping, she shot Harry a dirty look.

Warn pulled out a metal box, settling on his knees as he opened it. There was still no big reveal, as whatever was in the box was sheathed in rich black cloth.

"This is the Glass Heart," he said, as he unwrapped an impressively sized, heart-shaped diamond.

The gemstone was pure, perfectly clear, but gave off a reddish glow, somehow.

"No one knows precisely _how_ it was created. Legend has it that a wizard crafted it for his love, but she died before he could give it to her. This artifact is so special, Hermione, because it can grant a wish to the one who possesses it. _Any_ wish, but only one."

"Rubbish," she said in an airy murmur, her gaze still on the diamond.

"We would have thought so, too." Dahlia took the gemstone from the box, handing it carefully. "However, it was found _exactly_ where the legend said it would be. The only saving grace, apparently, was that not many know that legend. But now you understand why we could _not_ allow Voldemort to learn of its existence." Dahlia held the diamond toward her daughter.

After a few strained heartbeats, Hermione reached out, allowing Dahlia to place it upon her palm. Her eyebrows crept upward as she stared down at it, her fingers curling along only the very edge of the diamond.

It was nearly the size of a human heart!

Hermione gasped at the sensation of warmth against her skin. "Oh, my God. It feels . . . ."

"Alive, yes," Warn said, nodding in understanding as the Heart's last protector.

"I don't understand." Harry shook his head he turned to meet Warn Dagworth's gaze. "You said it can grant one wish to its possessor. What's to stop its protector from using it?"

"Because _we_ do not possess it." Warn bit his lip and looked away. "We could, but only if the Heart claimed someone else as its protector. It can only be possessed by one who is offered the Heart by its protector. Had Voldemort learned the legend, he could have easily used the Imperius Curse on me to _make_ me offer it to him." He let out a heavy sigh. "You see, the woman it was crafted for . . . she died because she _was_ dying. She was ill, and the creator simply finished his masterpiece too late." When he paused this time, it seemed he was reluctant to finish the story.

"And?" Hermione prompted, a terrible, icy feeling twisting in the pit of her stomach.

Dahlia's gaze was on the full bloom of roses edging the gazebo as she stepped in to finish the explanation. "Magic that powerful comes with an equally powerful price. He crafted the Heart to grant her one wish—he'd hoped that wish would be for her health to return, so that she could simply _live_. But the cost would have been his _own_ life."

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Hermione asked, "You don't simply mean a life for a life, do you?" She realized, with an unpleasant sting, why no one had ever simply tried to destroy it.

Her mother shook her head, still unable to meet the younger woman's gaze. "Your life is tied to it, until it claims a different protector. The Heart always picks someone of strong will and character, someone who accepts that such power should _never_ be used, because the cost of fulfilling its purpose—of granting that single wish— _is_ its protector's life."

Hermione thought for certain if not for Harry standing so close behind her, she'd have hit the floor.


	3. The Letters

**Chapter Three**

The Letters

Harry arched a brow as he watched Hermione putter about the kitchen of her Muggle home. Before he knew it, she was putting a tray of muffins into the oven.

Settling at the kitchen island, he nodded. "Oh, okay, then. So we're doing _this_ , now."

She shook her head, even as she laughed in spite of herself. "Whether I like it or not, I've got house elves, now, Harry. Next thing you know, we'll be back at Hogwarts for our final year. This may be the last chance I get to eat something I've made with my own two hands for _quite_ a while."

She'd insisted on picking up her things before her parents gave her the tour of the too-large house they expected her to live in, now. After their unsettling revelation, they seemed to realize she probably needed a moment away, with things familiar to her.

Her father had pulled Harry aside—but not entirely out of earshot—and handed him the Glass Heart, once more encased in its rich, black fabric within the metal box.

Harry hadn't had to ask what was happening. Just how high up his forehead his brows had shot voiced the question for him.

"Harry," Warn said, his expression terribly serious. "Do you love my daughter?"

The pair had gone wide-eyed at the question before they burst out laughing. It was a blessed release of tension after the day's drama.

"Dad, _please_ understand." Hermione shook her head as she walked over, placing a gentle hand on her father's arm. "Harry and I do love each other very much . . . . Just not like _that_. We're best friends."

They pretended not to notice the skeptical look her parents exchanged.

Giving himself a shake, Warn went on. "That will do, too. Harry, I want you to take this and hide it somewhere. Do not tell anyone where it is. Not me, nor Hermione; no one. Can you do that, for her sake?"

Harry understood, immediately. He was added insurance. No matter how strong someone was, there were so many motivations that could make people do incredibly stupid things—fear, love, hate. Warn wanted the assurance that Harry would never allow Hermione the chance to offer the Heart to anyone.

He half-expected Hermione to feel insulted that the elder wizard was suggesting there was something that might sway her will. Instead, she simply gave Harry a nod of understanding. Hermione was nothing if not pragmatic.

She'd even gone so far as to wait beyond the property line, her back to the estate grounds, as he found some place to stash the beautiful—but decidedly _awful_ —little treasure.

They'd Apparated to the backdoor of the Granger home, and he'd expected her to begin trying to stash the entire house into her tiny, extension-charmed bag. Instead, she'd started _baking._

He wasn't certain if the ability to so spectacularly sidetrack was a girl-thing, or a Hermione-thing. Either way, he _was_ rather sure he'd never understand it.

She closed the oven door and turned on her heel, clapping her hands together. "Now I will go pack while these bake. We'll stuff ourselves full of delicious, homemade chocolate chip muffins, and _then_ I'll go back to my new home."

As she pivoted toward the kitchen's entryway, Harry was overcome with the sense that this was something she probably wanted to do alone. "Um," he said, darting his gaze about. "I'll just give a shout when the timer goes off, then, shall I?"

Hermione paused in the doorway, nodding. "Thanks, Harry."

Just as he busied himself with picking at a corner of the island counter, she popped her head back into the room.

"Oh, and Harry?"

"Hmm?" He looked up, dropping his hand innocently to his side.

"Crookshanks is in the cellar. It would be a _big_ help if you could just run downstairs and nip him into his carrier for me."

His face fell, but she was gone, again, before he could protest.

He stood, his shoulders drooping as he sighed. Of course, Hermione always forgot that the only person the great ginger beast didn't try to claw to pieces for getting too close was _her_. But then, with all she was going through today—and would continue to go through over the next however-long-it-took to get used to this new life—he supposed the least he could do for her was withstand a few claw marks.

* * *

Fifteen . . . . Harry had _fifteen_ claw marks in him by the time he wrestled Crookshanks back up the cellar staircase in the carrier. Well, he considered, Hermione had been willing to go die with him in the Forbidden Forest, so he thought perhaps _this_ made them even.

Honestly, the only thing that had stopped him from using a petrification spell on a cat was the thought of the quelling look his already-hurting best friend would give him. _Oh, Harry, really?_ he could hear her saying as he imagined angry chestnut eyes holding his.

He huffed a sigh and shook his head. The things he and Hermione did for each other, it was no bloody wonder everyone always questioned how _close_ they really were.

As he settled the carrier on the dining room floor, Crookshanks grumbling his discontent all the while, he saw Hermione struggling down with a staircase from the upper floor. As she turned the banister, he saw what weighed her down—her arms were loaded with picture albums.

She made pacifying noises at the unhappy feline in the cage as she set the stack of books on the dining room table.

"I think you beat the muffin timer."

Hermione smirked as she shook her head. "I just decided to use my wand to put _all_ my things into the bag, rather than agonizing over every book, framed photograph, and item of clothing. I'm probably going to have _more_ than enough room for it all, anyway."

Biting his lip to hold in a laugh, Harry grasped her hand in his and lifted her wrist, giving it a shake. There was the sound of a _lot_ of items jostling about in that tiny pouch. "You didn't pack your furniture, too, did, you?"

"No, snarky-pants." She arched a brow as she placed a palm atop the pile of photo albums. "But I still have to put _these_ away. I just . . . I can't leave them here. Don't know what we're going to do with this place."

Harry nodded, dropping his gaze to the floor. As he did so, he noticed something near the front door. "You've got a letter."

Brow furrowing, she turned to look. "Huh." The envelope was the distinct color of parchment rather than the white, or manila, of Muggle post, and she thought it was a bit late for owls to be delivering in Muggle neighborhoods—had she really been so caught up in her thoughts that she'd not noticed it her first time through the house?

Crossing through the dining room and into the living room to retrieve the letter, she couldn't hide the surprise on her face as she read the return address. "It's from Malfoy."

"Good thing we weren't wagering on whether or not he'd ever reply. I'd have lost."

Rolling her eyes at him, she opened the letter. But, feeling his gaze on her, and not caring for him to pester her about what it said, she decided to read it aloud.

 _"Granger,_

 _"Can't say I expected to hear from you. I_ especially _didn't expect you'd be asking about how my family is doing after, well, everything. I think that's why it took me so long to write you back, I just didn't actually believe what I was reading. I mean, honestly, who the bloody hell are you to concern yourself with my family? Even my friends haven't asked how we're managing—they'll talk about every other bloody thing under the sun, but_ neve _r that."_

Hermione could actually imagine him giving an exasperated sigh between paragraphs.

 _"Mother is surprisingly well, considering she lost her sister. I know you probably didn't want to read that, with what my aunt did to you, but the War showed us we'd_ never _matter to Aunt Bella as much as the mere idea of pleasing Voldemort mattered to her. I think the woman my mother saw as her sister died_ long _before Weasleb"—_ this was crossed out and rewritten _—"Weasley's mum got to her. In the end, I think her real death might've been a relief._

 _"Father is the one having a hard time of it, actually. He puts on a brave face for the public, he excels at that. But once home, he becomes sullen and quiet._

 _"As for me? I suppose I'm still just happy to have made it out of all that insanity and misery alive . . . and I suppose I have you, Potter, and"_ —once more he had to attempt this name twice to write it correctly—" _Weasley to thank for that. I also suppose you can pass my thanks along to them, though they probably won't believe you._

 _"I honestly have no idea why I just told you all that. Maybe I should just tear this up and start over. I'm probably just babbling, because I'm relieved to get this all off my chest. And, well, it's already written, might as well send it, right?_

 _"I guess I should ask how you're doing? That's proper correspondence etiquette, isn't it?_

 _D. Malfoy"_

"Funny," Harry said, glancing from her face to the letter in her hand, and back. "He didn't _actually_ ask how you're doing. Typical Malfoy, I suppose. I'd never have guessed he was a rambler."

Suddenly Hermione was moving again. Dropping herself into a writing desk tucked in a corner of the living room, she uncapped a bottle of ink and snatched up a quill and fresh piece of parchment from inside the drawer.

His brows shooting up behind the wire rims of his glasses, Harry walked over the stand beside the desk. "Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"What're you doing?"

She shrugged, but didn't look up from what she was writing. "Responding, of course."

He nodded, pursing his lips. After a moment, he said, "So much for not being his new best friend."

"Oh, shut up," she said with a scowl as she signed the letter and folded it. "I just thought we could send it out, then be on our way, as—with all that's going on—I could forget once I get _home_."

 _Ding!_

"Muffins are ready!" She bounced up from her seat and hurried into the kitchen.

Harry decided he didn't know what to make of this whole correspondence business, after all, and followed Hermione into the kitchen.

* * *

Hermione stared back at the female elf who'd answered the door of the Estate. "Hello," she said, smiling down at the tiny creature, hoping that—now that her blood status wasn't an issue for the notoriously loyal servants—her effort at pleasantry might be returned. "I'm—"

"Look a' you!" The elf covered her mouth with her long-fingered hands as she gave Hermione a once-over. "Saphie has not seen Miss since she was so, so tiny! Come in, come in! Saphie will fetch Mistress!"

Just like that, Saphie poofed out of sight.

Realizing that, of course, the elves had known her when she was a baby, Hermione forced a breath. She willed herself to step into the house and close the doors behind her.

The place was huge. And it _glimmered_. Saphie and whoever the other servants were had _really_ seen to their masters' wishes during their long absence. Crystal chandeliers sparkled with fresh, lit candles, the plush, vibrantly colored carpets looked as though no one ever walked across them. Fresh flowers sprouted from fine porcelain vases at perfectly-spaced intervals along the main floor, and gilded mirrors and portraits lined the walls between the many doorways beyond the twin curving staircases that led up the second level.

"Oh, God, _this_ is home," she said in a breathless whisper. She didn't know if she was elated or terrified.

Probably a bit of both.

"Hermione, darling! There you are."

She looked up at the sound of her mum's voice. It was a still a bit of a shock to see this unfamiliar version of the woman who'd raised her, but she knew she'd get used to it. This was new for them, too, after all.

They'd lost eighteen years with her. They probably hadn't planned on returning to find their daughter already a grown woman.

Holding back a sniffle, Hermione gave herself a shake. "Yes, sorry. I . . . Harry had an awful time trying to get my familiar packed up for me."

Dahlia reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed to stand directly in front of Hermione. Without waiting for permission, she took the carrier from her daughter's hand and set it down. With a flick of her wand, she unlocked and opened the door.

"Oh, he's part Kneazel, isn't he?" Dahlia sounded positively delighted as she watched the smush-faced orange feline poke his head out and sniff the air. "Such clever creatures, aren't they?"

Hermione was genuinely surprised by the zip of relief she felt through her. "Finally," she said, her frame drooping as she threw up her hands. "My friends _never_ appreciated him!"

With a grin, Dahlia leaned down, holding her hand out toward the cat in a docile gesture of greeting. "What is his name?"

"Crookshanks." Hermione was surprised she got the name out, as she was mesmerized by the way her beloved feisty beast sniffed at her mother's hand . . . and then rubbed his cheek against the side of her palm.

The only person Hermione'd ever seen Crookshanks so easily affectionate with was herself.

"Unique name for a unique being, isn't that so, Crookshanks?" Scratching between his ears, Dahlia then straightened up. "Come along, darling. Your father is upstairs, overseeing the elves. They're setting a room for you. You can put your things away, then we'll show you about."

"I thought I already had a room," Hermione said as she followed her mother back up the stairs. She couldn't help but notice that her mother's steps faltered for a moment.

"You do, but . . . the last time you used it . . . . It's still a nursery; we've not had the chance to change it."

"Oh." Hermione felt terrible, suddenly. Of course, she should have realized that.

"As I was saying, we'll show you about once you have your things away. I'm certain Saphie will be delighted to help. She used to be your nursemaid, you know." Dahlia sidestepped as they reached the top of the stairs, moving beside Hermione as the younger witch caught up, and slipping her arm around the girl's shoulders. "I think the places you'd most like to see are the library, and of course, the reliquary."

Chestnut eyes lit up. "We have our own reliquary?"

"Of course, we do! This _is_ Dagworth Estate. The family has only donated to the Department of Mysteries that which they didn't find _wholly_ fascinating."

Hermione tried to quell the sudden giddiness washing over her. This really _was_ her family!

"Where would you like to see first, darling?"

"Um . . . ." Chewing on her bottom lip a moment, Hermione said, "I think I'd actually like to see my nursery first, if . . . if that's all right."

Dahlia paused in mid-stride beside her, turning her head to meet her daughter's gaze. "Oh, of _course_ , it's all right. Warn?" she called as she turned Hermione toward a particular door. "We'll be in the nursery."

Hermione wasn't entirely certain what she was expecting as she stepped into the room that had been hers for so short a time at the very beginning of her life. Other than the overwhelmingly posh surroundings, it looked so much like any nursery. But with a Wizarding touch, to be sure.

The mobile that hung above the polished Cherrywood crib was an active display of the constellations. The snow globes lining the shelves—interspersed with books too advanced for most toddlers, but that a Dagworth child would likely have read cover-to-cover by the time they were two, if Hermione could guess from what she kept hearing about her family line—all showed different Wizarding towns. The snow swirled in continuous movement, and tiny patrons moved from shop to shop, or teeny families puttered about in front of their homes.

But the thing that truly caught Hermione's attention . . . .

She crossed the room, swallowing hard as she watched one gilt-framed, moving photograph atop the dresser. She'd seen herself as a small child in pictures enough times, but never _this_ small.

Her mother held her tiny hand in her own, waving it at the photographer. Dad beamed beside them, flicking a brow upward as he proudly looped an arm around his wife and child.

"Oh, _God_ ," Hermione said gasping. She covered her mouth with her hands, muffling a sob.

Dahlia and Warn were beside her in the space of a heartbeat.

"Hermione, darling, come along. Let's—"

"No, no," Hermione said, dropping her fingers from her face as she forced a sniffle. "I . . . . We took this picture, again."

Her parents exchanged a glance. "What do you mean?"

"There's a picture identical to this one—without the motion, of course—that you took with me during my first birthday party." Hermione ventured, though she did not know if it would be received well, "I brought my photo albums from home. I . . . I might have it."

Again, Dahlia and Warn shared a look.

"Would you show us?"

Hermione's heart broke, with equal parts sadness and joy, as she nodded. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling the first of her albums from her tiny bag as her parents settled on either side of her.

* * *

Draco tipped his head as he passed the door. A letter sat just inside. Silly owls—he still had no idea how they managed. It was a bit late for post, but then owls kept whatever hours were convenient for the people sending them, he supposed.

Retrieving the letter, he was surprised to see Hermione Granger's name on the back.

Looking about, as though he thought his parents would appear, reading over his shoulders at any moment, he walked to the sitting room. He opened the letter as he went, expecting to read a single line to the effect of _I'm well, thanks_ , in response to all his inane babbling.

He couldn't have been more surprised to find a few paragraphs staring back at him.

 _Malfoy,_

 _I'm surprisingly well, though I've just received some rather startling news. However, I'm pretty sure it's not something I'm really at liberty to discuss, just yet. Everyone will probably know what I'm talking about before start of term, anyway._

 _I've passed on your thanks to Harry—who, incidentally,_ did _believe me, thanks, very much—but if you want to thank Ron, you'll have to contact him, yourself._

Draco's brows shot up, and he found himself reading that line over again to be certain he hadn't misunderstood.

 _However, I really wouldn't suggest it, and I_ really _don't want to discuss Ronald Weasley, if it's all the same to you._

 _I can't believe I'm going to say this—even less can I believe I'm saying it to_ you _—but no one should feel like they've got no one to turn to, so . . . . If you want, I suppose you can write me._

 _You know, just for the sake of venting._

 _Oh, but if you do decide to take me up on that and write back, I'll be at a different address._

 _Granger_

The new address was scribbled below her signature.

Frowning, Draco put the letter on the table for a moment. He darted his gaze about as he tried to digest the notion. Was he _really_ entertaining the idea of maintaining a correspondence with Hermione Granger?

Lucius walked in nearly before Draco had noticed.

He turned and, to his utter mortification, his father was holding the letter. However, the glazed look of tired misery in Lucius' grey eyes told Draco he wasn't really interested in whatever the missive said.

"Hmm, odd. That address is the Dagworth Estate. No one has been there in nearly two decades."

Draco arched a brow. "Dagworth? You know, Professor Slughorn once asked her if she was related to someone named . . . what was it? Hector Dagworth-Granger, I believe?" Wait, that was first day of . . . . "

Oh, hell. Draco was _not_ going to trouble himself with how he'd managed to remember that fragment of information amidst all he was dealing with during that time.

Lucius gave a side to side nod of his head as a thoughtful frown graced his lips. "Then it makes sense, I suppose. The Dagworths fled the First Wizarding War, no one has heard from them since. She might well _be_ a distant relative, and as witch, who _is_ of age, it is possible that, in the absence of the Dagworths, the Estate was turned over to her."

The briefest flicker of what appeared to be recognition flashed across his face, but he just as quickly shook his head. "Never mind," he said, muttering his words as he set down the letter. "Just my imagination."

Lucius turned and left the room, exactly as quietly as he'd entered.

Alone, once more, Draco decided it was late. He should really go up to his room and turn in for the night. So why, then, was he settling into a chair as he picked up the letter and started reading it, again?

Perhaps he'd . . . misunderstood something in her words. Yes, _that_ was it.


	4. The Unchanging

**Chapter 4**

The Unchanging

"Here you are, my dearest," a half-asleep Hermione heard her father say as she passed the nursery door on her way to use the toilet later that night. It had to be near 2 AM, she hadn't expected anyone to be awake . . . with the exception of one of the house elves struck with a late-night cleaning fit, of course.

She risked backpedaling a step to peer inside.

Mum sat on the floor, her legs curled under her in such a ladylike fashion. And open in her lap was . . . .

"I can't seem to stop looking at them," Dahlia said, her voice thick as she turned a page in one of Hermione's photo albums.

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, swallowing hard as she watched her parents.

Heaving a sigh, Warn settled beside his wife, pulling the book half into his own lap. Reaching out, he traced over some of the pictures with gentle fingertips. "I still can't believe we lost so much time with her."

"We knew this was a possibility when we decided to let Albus cast the charm, Warn."

"I remember," he said in a choked whisper, wrapping an arm around his wife as she tucked herself into his side.

Stepping back, Hermione gave herself a shake. She forced down an upwelling of tears—she wanted to go to them, but also recognized what a private moment this was for them—and continued onto the bathroom.

* * *

"A party?" Hermione's brows shot up as she stared at her mother across the table at breakfast the next morning.

"No, darling, not a _party_ ," Dahlia said, crinkling the bridge of nose as she shook her head. She nibbled at a piece of toast before clarifying, "A ball."

Hermione glanced at her father. He pursed his lips, holding in a snicker as he stared down at his plate.

"But a _celebration_? Announcing the Dagworths' return?"

Dahlia nodded.

"And, so, it would have to include announcing _me,_ I'm guessing?"

Again, Dahlia nodded, picking at her food with delicate, ladylike taps of her fork. "Well, yes, of course. Naturally, we can't tell anyone _why_ we had to hide the way we did. However, with all the knowledge and artifacts our family holds, we can believably rely on that, _alone_ , as reason enough to have concealed ourselves from Voldemort."

Hermione sighed and shook her head, even as she noticed her father nodding from the corner of her eye.

She supposed it _would_ be too much to hope for that they could maybe wait until after her Hogwarts graduation to reveal her true identity to the _whole_ of Wizarding Britain. Since the news of her identity had been revealed at the Ministry, she was actually surprised no one had slipped this undoubtedly juicy bit of information to the Daily Prophet, yet.

But then, it was still early in the day. For all she knew, it was this morning's front page headline.

"Mm, this reminds me," Dahlia was saying when Hermione brought her thoughts back to the moment at hand. "I should really write Xen and let him know we've . . . well, _returned_."

Hermione sat up a bit straighter. "Xen . . . ? Do you mean Xenophilius Lovegood? What's he got to do with anything?"

"He _is_ my only living relative, darling. He—" Dahlia's eyes flashed wide. "Oh, no! _Please_ tell me he survived the Second War?"

"Oh, yes, he did . . . ." Hermione felt the breath go out of her as that one word bounced around in her head. "Relative?" she echoed.

Dahlia smiled in relief as she said, "Yes. My cousin. So you know him, already?"

Swallowing uncomfortably—she had come to really appreciate Luna's uniqueness and see her as a good friend, but . . . her _blood-relation_?—Hermione nodded. And, of course, there was that whole messy business with Xenophilius turning her and her friends over to the Snatchers. But maybe this wasn't the time to relive that particular incident. "He um, he runs a magazine, The Quibbler, and has a daughter named Luna. We're friends, actually. She's a Ravenclaw, one year behind me at Hogwarts."

"Oh, how wonderful," Mum said, grinning ear-to-ear. "And you? I trust you made Ravenclaw, as well?"

Hermione shrank back in her chair a bit. "Um, no."

The sound of her father dropping his fork seemed to echo through the dining room. " _Not_ a Ravenclaw? What house did you make, then?"

"Gryffindor." She shot her gaze from her father to her mother, and back, before she tacked on, "But the Sorting Hat did _strongly_ consider placing me in Ravenclaw. I suspect its decision was due to my reliance on book-facts, and difficulty in thinking outside-the-box."

Warn pressed a palm over his heart as he breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, the Hat recognized your ingenuity, but I suppose your bravery outweighs it, and that isn't a thing over which I can be upset."

Hermione let out a sigh, as well. Apparently pure-blood families really _did_ take sorting seriously.

If they chose to resort the pre-existing student body for the term following the War—what with all the tests of character, shifting of perceptions and wavering of allegiances that had taken place—she wondered if she would be Ravenclaw this time, around. She _had_ shown more than her fair share of quick-thinking during this last year.

She tried not to think about Malfoy in this context. Though, she considered for a brief moment that his position as most obnoxious person in Slytherin House might be threatened.

Fine, _second_ most obnoxious, if Pansy Parkinson chose to return for eighth year.

Clearing her throat, she decided to shift the conversation back to her extended family. "Did you know Xenophilius' wife?"

"Did I . . . ?" Dahlia frowned as she held her daughter's gaze. "Something happened to Pandora, didn't it?"

Hermione bit her lip, toying with the food on her plate. "She passed away. A spell she was experimenting with backfired. Luna was . . . ." Pausing, she thought back to what Harry had told her. "Nine?"

"The poor thing." Shaking her head, Dahlia's frown deepened. "Pandora was a wonderful woman. I think you would have liked her. Spellwork was her life, though. I suppose it should be a comfort that she passed on doing what she loved."

Her mother's voice had taken on a distracted tone and Hermione glanced at her father in question.

He was already responding, tossing his napkin down beside his plate and rising from the table. Rounding to his wife's chair he knelt beside her, resting his hand over hers. "Dahlia, my dearest, stop. I know what you're—"

"I wasn't here for him, Warn. I missed what time Pandora had left, and I _wasn't_ here for Xen. We had _no_ other family. I can't imagine what he went through dealing with that loss on his own, _with_ a child to care for."

Hermione pouted in thought as she registered her mother's words. His wife's death was something he'd dealt with _alone_? Dear God, was there a chance he was a bit less eccentric nine years ago?

"Come along, let's go write him now. With any luck, he'll receive it by lunch."

Dahlia nodded, allowing Warn to assist her to her feet. "Hermione, darling, do you want to come, too? You can write to Luna; we can send the letters out, together."

Holding in a sigh, Hermione nodded. "I'll be along in a moment, I just . . . need a few minutes."

Once her parents were gone, Hermione slumped back in her chair, her expression dazed. Luna was her cousin, and her mother's absence might be responsible for making Xenophilius _madder_ than he naturally was?

Hearing a shuffling sound, she looked toward the entryway of the room. There, Saphie and another elf hovered.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she forced a smile. "Oh, good morning."

Saphie smiled back, toddling in. The other elf, a male who seemed a bit younger than Saphie, followed at her heels.

"Good morning, Miss!" Saphie moved behind Hermione's chair, marveling at the wild locks that spilled over the back of it. "So much hair! Miss was so, _so_ bald as a baby, Saphie thought she might never grow any."

That revelation was the most beautifully frivolous thing Hermione could've hoped to hear, just then. She laughed as she turned to face the other elf.

"I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Noret," the little thing said in a small voice.

Hermione thought he looked about ready to dart behind Saphie. The witch frowned, her shoulders slumping as Noret did exactly that.

"Noret's a shy one, Miss," Saphie explained in a whisper that wasn't the slightest bit quiet. "He last saw Miss when she was so, so small. Miss-now is a stranger to him."

"Ah. And when he's gotten to know me a bit?"

Noret muttered something over Saphie's shoulder. Saphie nodded, beaming. "Then Noret will be less shy!"

Hermione nodded. Elves could have social anxiety issues. Who knew? The distraction of the elves' presence only lasted for a moment, since she wouldn't be having this conversation, at all, if not for the last twenty-four hours.

Saphie's tiny shoulders drooped as she noticed the witch's expression grow somber. "Something troubles Miss?"

"Yeah." Hermione shrugged as she turned her gaze toward the windows. "I just . . . this has all been so much to take in in such a short time. I can talk to my friends, but since there are some things about this I can't share with them—" One very particular thing, actually, she considered, unnoticing of her own fingertips trailing over her Mark through her nightshirt and dressing gown. "It might feel like I'm lying. I can't do that to my friends. I suppose I could talk to Harry, since he already knows, but—"

"Perhaps Miss can talk to someone who is not a friend?"

Brow furrowing, Hermione looked to the smaller elf around Saphie's shoulder. "What?"

Noret's enormous eyes darted from Saphie to Hermione, and back. He ducked further behind Saphie, despite that he elaborated. "Miss cannot tell her friends, because she does not want to lie to them," he repeated, his voice barely a thread of sound. "Then perhaps Miss will not feel so bad if she keeps the secrets from one who is not a friend."

A half-smile curved Hermione's lips as she nodded. "One who is not a friend. Thank you, Noret! Thank you, Saphie!"

Hermione thought she could already feel a bit of the weight lift from her shoulders as she bounced out of her chair and headed from the room to write the first of her _two_ letters.

* * *

"You could fit my entire house in your sitting room!" Ginny trailed, wide-eyed, behind Hermione that afternoon. Harry had informed Ginny of everything after he'd parted from Hermione yesterday evening.

Well, _almost_ everything. She was pretty sure Harry Potter would take any mention of the Glass Heart to his grave.

"Stop exaggerating! I love the Burrow," Hermione said with a sigh, her head shaking. "Though I suppose I probably won't see it again, any time soon."

"Look, you've always been family." Ginny slipped her arm around her friend's shoulders. "Ron will come back 'round and remember that no matter what else has happened, you're his _friend_. Mum will, too. I think it'll hit them when that week before school rolls around, and you're _not_ there."

Hermione nodded as she led the ginger-haired witch up to the room that was temporarily hers. It had become something of a tradition for her and Harry to spend the days leading up to start of term at the Weasley house.

For a flickering moment, Hermione felt bad. It was enough that the house probably seemed quieter, already, with Fred _gone_.

It was hard with their loss to remind herself that she'd done nothing wrong.

Perhaps that was part of Ron and Molly's anger toward her. It must be easier to allow themselves anger at someone who was living, than sadness over someone who was dead.

Ginny recognized a Hermione-Fret when she saw one. "Okay, let's not talk about my family, then. So, Harry said your parents don't remember anything?" she asked, as soon as Hermione had the door closed behind them—she spoke as she moved in a slow circle, marveling over the sheer size of the room, to say nothing of the grand bookcases, the overly-large four-post bed, and the finely polished wood furnishings.

Hermione, hardly immune to her new home's charms, but sick of looking at them for the moment, fell onto the cushioned seat before her vanity table. She had a bloody vanity table!

Propping an elbow on the edge of the table, she rested her chin against her palm. "They _may_ , eventually _._ The charm-breaking might've just been too much of a shock for them to remember, just now." She bit her lip, holding back from recounting finding her parents pouring over her photo albums in the wee hours of the morning.

She didn't think she could take describing that moment. Her emotions were so raw after all she'd been made to feel over this last day that she wasn't certain she could make it through without crumbling.

And Hermione _hated_ crumbling under the weight of her emotions.

But there was something she could share without feeling like someone was stomping on her heart. Forcing a smile, she proceeded to fill Ginny in on Dahlia Dagworth's plans for revealing her to the pure-blood world.

Ginny pivoted on her heel to face Hermione, finally having pulled her attention away from the currently-empty wardrobe. She was trying not to let her eyes glaze over in wonder as she imagined all the amazing pieces that would fill the one in Hermione's _actual_ bedroom, soon enough.

"A ball?" Ginny's brows shot up, and she couldn't fight the smile on her face as she pictured Harry spinning her across the floor to stuffy classical music. "Well, pure-bloods don't tend to do things on a small scale. Merlin's beard! Can you picture the look on Pansy Parkinson's face when she finds out you're a _Dagworth_!"

A grin curved Hermione's lips in spite of herself. She supposed that couldn't be helped, however, with all the hell Pansy had given her over the years.

"And what about Malfoy!"

Ginny's giggles eased Hermione's immediate agitation at the mention. "I'd rather _not_ think about Malfoy, right now."

Saphie poofed into the room just then, seemingly on cue. "Post for Miss," she declared happily as she dropped two letters down in front of Hermione.

Hermione thanked the always-smiling elf, introducing her to Ginny before the little thing was off, again. She drew in a breath and let it out slow. Once she was more settled she was going to make a right nuisance of herself, insisting on helping the elves with their chores, she just _knew_ it.

She turned over the letters before her, deliberately missing the look she knew Ginny as giving her over the notion of Hermione _Granger_ having house elves.

The first was from Malfoy. She hurriedly opened it and peeked at its contents.

Luckily, this was not any rambling mess, like yesterday's.

 _Granger,_

Hermione was actually going to _miss_ him calling her Granger. She didn't think he was going to be able to put the same malicious ring to 'Dagworth.'

 _I just may take you up on that, but don't go_ expecting _anything. It's a_ maybe _._

 _D. Malfoy_

Biting her lip to hold in a laugh at how _typically_ Draco Malfoy his message was, she realized he was probably receiving the letter she'd written this morning right about now. His response to _that_ was probably going to be a _bit_ more dramatic than this most recent one.

Well, provided he was clever enough to understand the surface-reading. Wait, what was she thinking? This was _Malfoy_ , of course he was clever enough. And she really did feel a bit better after getting it all out onto paper.

Whether or not it would be coherent was another matter, entirely.

Putting Draco's letter aside, she turned to the next one. Return address, _L. Lovegood_.

Turning to face Ginny, who was trying _very_ hard to look like she hadn't just been toying the sparkly, jeweled knickknacks on the dresser, Hermione said, "I forgot to tell you about my cousin!"

"Cousin?" Ginny beamed, hoping it was someone pleasant—someone who might help ease Hermione into this whole pure-blood thing without trying to change her. "Go on, then!"

Hermione couldn't help a laugh as she delicately opened Luna's message on her lap. "You might want to sit down, first."

* * *

"Another letter from Miss _Granger_?" Lucius said, as he dropped the envelope down in front of Draco. "Whatever _are_ you two so chatty about?"

Draco's brows shot up as he looked from the letter to his father, and back. She should've only just gotten his reply. "I honestly have no idea."

Noting how genuinely puzzled his son seemed, Lucius frowned thoughtfully as he nodded. He exited the room, aware that the young man was probably not going to open the letter while he stood there.

It wasn't as though it _hadn't_ crossed his mind to sneak a look at the letter's contents, but he was well aware his son would never forgive him for the invasion of privacy. And, really, didn't he _already_ have a long enough list of things for which his son might never forgive him?

Listening for his father's steps to disappear down the corridor, Draco popped up from his chair and crossed the room to close the door. He let out a sigh as he sat back down and opened the letter.

 _Impress me to read me._

His brows shot up for a moment at the words staring back at him.

"Impress me?" he whispered. What could that possibly . . . ? "Impress? What does this daft witch . . . witch? Bewitch . . . enchant . . . . No. _Charm."_

He understood as he tried out the different terms. Whatever Granger had written, she didn't want anyone else to read.

Grabbing up his wand, he tapped the parchment, casting a reveal charm over her hidden message. Paragraphs blurred into form.

 _Malfoy,_

 _I can't believe I'm turning to_ you _of all people, but I need to unload this on someone who_ isn't _a friend, because . . . . Well, 'because_ reasons _', as Muggles would say._

Draco gave a side-to-side nod.

 _I just received confirmation that everyone's going to find out about this soon enough, so there's no harm in breaking it to you a bit early, I suppose. But you_ can't _tell anyone else. As strange as it is, I feel like I can_ actually _trust you to do as I'm asking._

 _Anyway._

 _I just found out my family has been keeping a huge secret from me my entire life. My parents . . . they're not who everyone thought they were, including_ me _. I know it seems mad, and I'm probably not making much sense._

"You'd be right," he said, shaking his head as he furrowed his brow at her rambling.

 _Long story short, there was a charm atop another charm, and a few memory alterations later—Hell, where was I going with this? Oh, right. Are you sitting down? You should probably sit._

Pausing, Draco couldn't help darting his gaze about the room. It was obvious from the tone of her writing that Granger was panicking.

Huh, he didn't think Granger _could_ panic.

 _Okay, here's the thing. I'm a Dagworth._

Draco dropped the letter, as though the parchment burned his fingertips. A _Dagworth_? As in the Dagworth Estate father had mentioned last night? Dagworth, the pure-blood family that had dropped off the face of the Wizarding world?

No . . . no. She must just mean a distant relation, as father said. Nodding as he drew a breath and let it out slow, he picked up the letter and started reading again.

 _Don't even start asking me, I had no idea. My parents hid in plain sight, because the Dagworths have a long history of hoarding knowledge and artifacts, and they were afraid of what Voldemort would do to acquire said knowledge for his own ends._

Grey eyes widened as he understood that she _hadn't_ meant distant relation, at all. He thought he could actually hear her let out an exasperated sigh as she gave herself a shake between paragraphs.

 _My entire life has been turned upside down. It's become a thing I don't recognize, and every new_ something _that I should have known about myself all along makes me feel like I'm going just a little bit mad._

 _I have house elves!_ Me _! I mean, my family treats them like trusted friends rather than slaves, but_ still _!_

 _But it's strange. There are so many things that wouldn't have happened to me, had who I really was been known, and yet, those very things helped shape who I am now, and I don't think I'd change my past for the world. Even if some of those things were_ really _terrible._

Draco squared his jaw, trying to pretend he didn't know she was talking about his aunt, and, to a lesser extent, himself and his parents.

 _You were right, it really is better to get things off your chest. I feel a bit calmer, already._

 _Oh, I should probably give you a head's up about this. Before start of term, my parents are going to hold a ball, to mark our family's return to the Wizarding world—God, pure-bloods can be obnoxious about their precious pomp and circumstance. I'm suspecting that the Most Ancient and Noble families will likely make the invite list, so . . . . Do us_ both _a favor, and act surprised when your family receives it?_

 _Hermione_ Dagworth

As he finished reading it, the words faded out of existence. What a clever enchantment that was. He wondered where she picked it up, but then the weight of what she'd just revealed hit him.

 _She_ was a pure-blood? Hermione _Grange_ r? The girl he'd called Mudblood for _years_?

But the thing that struck him most, now that he knew what the letter said—he'd probably have a _proper_ meltdown about this later—was that he would've expected her to take him to task over how horrible he'd been to her for so long. A laundry list of her grievances against him, and his parents, was what _should_ have followed her revelation.

Hermione Granger . . . _Dagworth_ , the only girl in school ever to best him in test scores was a _pure-blood_. He could have been studying alongside the brightest girl in school the _entire_ time?

He didn't want it to happen, but memories tumbled through his head. He didn't want to imagine how different things could have been. Not that it would matter to Grang—Dagworth.

 _Damn_. That didn't even have the same ring to it!

No, what would matter to her was that he was so terrible to her _because_ of her status as a Muggle-born. It wasn't as though this changed anything. It didn't change their past, and it didn't change their dislike of one another, but still.

The always-unpleasant expression that twisted Pansy's pretty features crossed his mind. Followed by the look of cold disdain that settled over Granger's face so often when dealing with Pansy.

Huh, maybe she'd had a touch of pure-blood in her behavior, all along.

None of this mattered, because it didn't change anything, he reminded himself, once more.

Still, he couldn't help himself as he cast his gaze heavenward. "She could've been a possibility all along? _Really_?"

Just as quickly, Draco told himself _no._ She hadn't been, and wasn't now, because—he reminded himself for the _third_ time—this revelation didn't change _a thing_.


	5. The Planning

**Chapter Five**

The Planning

A knock at Hermione's bedroom door broke her focus. She'd heard the chime, signaling someone arriving by Floo—reconnecting the Estate to the network had been handled last night. This was now her second day waking up under this roof, and she thought perhaps she was getting accustomed to it faster than she'd imagined she would. But then, that might simply be because she'd surrounded herself with things from her previous home.

She avoided glancing at the needlessly ornate clock on her bedside table as she looked up from her book. She certainly was not curious about the hour. And even if she was, it had nothing, whatsoever, to do with whether or not she wondered if she might receive any post from Draco today in response to her revelation in yesterday's letter . . . .

Because she was absolutely _not_ wondering about that!

Closing the book she'd been reading, she sat up on her bed. "Come in." The door opened, and a familiar, blonde head poked through.

"Luna!" Hermione was up and crossing the room to hug the other girl before Luna could get a word out. She didn't recall ever being so happy to see the Ravenclaw witch, but—much like Harry, Ginny, her familiar, and her favorite quill—the very sight of her was a much welcomed dose of normalcy.

"Hermione, you're crushing me," Luna said with an airy giggle.

"Oh, sorry." Stepping back, Hermione shook her head and laughed in spite of herself. "I, um . . . I'm just really glad to see you."

The pale-haired witch beamed, bouncing in place as she clasped her hands behind her back.

With a thoughtful frown, Hermione wrung her hands. She hadn't really considered this before, but now that she was face-to-face with her _cousin_ , the thought just sort of popped in there. "Um, you've always had a _unique_ sense of things."

Luna nodded. "I like to think so."

"Did you have any idea that we're . . . well . . . ?"

"Related?" Luna finished for her, her brows creeping up her forehead.

"Yeah."

Giving a sideways nod, Luna shrugged. "There were times when I thought there was some connection, but I could never really put my finger on it." Her expression brightened further as she said, "And even had I thought so and tried to tell you, you wouldn't have believed me, being so very much about hard facts as you are."

Hermione could only nod in reply. Even if Luna had known—if Luna _had_ tried to tell her—they had a connection, she'd never have guessed it was shared blood.

"Your Mum is lovely." Nearly as soon as Luna spoke, her eyes shot wide and she held up her hands. "I don't mean she wasn't lovely as a Muggle, I mean before . . . ." Wincing, her entire frame seemed to droop. "I'm sorry, this is all very confusing, even for _me_."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh at that.

"I only mean this is my first time meeting her as my aunt." Luna offered a watery smile, the tip of her nose reddening just a little. "She—she told me I look like my mother."

"Oh, Luna," Hermione said, once more moving to embrace her friend.

"No, no," Luna protested in a small voice, even as she returned the hug. "These are happy tears. Father never talks about her, so I was glad to hear that."

"There's been too many tears under this roof the last few days, happy or otherwise." The brunette witch's voice was tight as she pressed her forehead to her cousin's. "I think I'm just getting a bit sick of all the saltwater."

"Let's go downstairs. Father and Minister Shacklebolt are here, too."

Instantly Luna was spinning on her heel. Reaching back blindly for Hermione's hand, she dragged the other girl along behind her.

"Why's the Minister here?"

Luna waved dismissively with her free hand. "Something about Aunt Dahlia wanting the Ministry involved in the ball she's planning? Since she wants to include the ceremony for changing your blood status and lineage in the Ministry's Register."

Hermione let her head drop back, uttering an unattractive groan as Luna tugged her down the curving staircase. Why couldn't that be a simple thing?

"There's _actually_ a ceremony for that?"

The lids of her dreamy, dark-blue eyes fluttering in rapid blinks, Luna nodded. "There's a ceremony for _everything_ official."

This time it was Hermione's frame that slumped as they reached the main floor. They could've probably sent _any_ Ministry officer for that, but since she hefted the weighty title of War Hero, and was a personal acquaintance of the Minister . . . .

Oh, yes, _fine._ She could see what all the fuss was about. That didn't mean she had to like it.

She could already hear her mother's voice as they moved toward the sitting room. There was a wash of icy nervousness in the pit of her stomach, growing just a little sharper with every step across the floor. She hadn't seen Xenophilius— _Uncle Xen_ , apparently—since that horrible time during the War.

While she didn't hold it against him, knowing well he was only trying to protect Luna, she worried how he'd respond to seeing her, what with her mother _right_ there. Dahlia and Xenophilius were meeting again after so long apart, she didn't want to say or do anything that would sour their reunion.

 _Oh, no . . . !_ If he did still feel bad about that mess, he probably only felt worse after the revelation that she was his not-so-long-lost niece.

Hermione pulled Luna to a halt just before they could cross the threshold into the sitting room. "Your dad—he's okay, right?"

Turning her head, Luna met Hermione's gaze with a confused pout. "What d'you mean?"

"After . . . everything?"

"Oh, that." Luna nodded, her eyes wide. "I figured this might be a concern, so I took the liberty of telling him you'd forgiven him for that as soon as we were all safe."

Hermione's face fell—that sounded like the sort of thing _she_ would think to do, herself!

Misinterpreting the other witch's expression, Luna's pout became more exaggerated. "That was all right to do, wasn't it?"

Laughing at the sudden, bubbly feeling of relief, Hermione once more hugged her friend. "We really _are_ cousins!"

* * *

"So 'Mione's . . . ." Ron furrowed his brow, his gaze darting back and forth as he tried to process what Harry and Ginny were telling him. "Wow," he said as let out a breath, raking his fingers through his hair.

Harry and Ginny exchanged a look before Harry sat down beside the ginger-haired wizard. "Yeah, and with all that's going on for her, it would be nice if she had her friends there for her . . . _all_ of her friends."

"So you need to let this thing about her and Malfoy go." Ginny ignored the sharp look Harry shot her as her brother's jaw clenched.

"I wasn't wrong," Ron said, but just as quickly shook his head, rolling his eyes at his own statement. "I _was_ wrong, I know, but . . . . I don't know what to even say to her, now."

"Look, you know where you went wrong—you don't get to dictate who other people can be friends with." Ginny shrugged. "Especially _not_ your girlfriend—though, I'm pretty sure you've seen to _that_ ship sailing, all on your own."

"I _know,"_ Ron said with a miserable groan. "I'd be lying if I said I don't miss her. Even if we can't go back to . . . _that_."

"That almost sounds reasonable. Are you sure you haven't got a fever, or something?"

"Shut it, Harry." Ron shoved his friend's shoulder before returning his attention to Ginny. "So help me. What do I do?"

"You say to her 'I'm sorry I was such a _complete_ arse. Can we get past this and be friends, again?'"

Ron nodded, wiping his hands down his face.

"But," Harry said with a smirk, "you might want to be specific about which incident you're apologizing for, since you have _such_ a habit of being an arse, an' all."

Ginny snickered as a minor—mostly playful—scuffle broke out between the wizards.

* * *

Hermione was seated on a plush armchair in the sitting room. _This_ she could get used to, she decided—her legs curled under her and her nose lodged between the pages of one of many interesting leather-bound tomes she'd discovered in the shelves of her _new_ family library.

Her mother, and father, and Kingsley Shacklebolt sat around the marble and gold-trim coffee table, going through names of those they used to know. Uncle Xen was giving Luna a tour of the grounds—and apparently introducing her to some Estate ghosts with whom Hermione'd yet to have the pleasure.

So far, she'd had Harry, Ginny, and now Luna all agree to attend the memorial she was planning for the Grangers. Now, all she needed was the date her parents intended for the ball, so she could bid her old life farewell properly before deciding whether or not she wanted to accept this new one.

"Okay, no Lestranges . . . though I suppose that's a relief," Dahlia was saying as she shook her head and crossed out the name on the scroll of parchment open before her. "That Rodolphus was always a bit . . . ."

"Terrifying?" Warn asked with a laugh.

A small grin turning up the corners of her lips, his wife nodded.

Hermione refrained from making any noise expressing her dissent for that particular family name. She hadn't shared with her parents her rather unpleasant past with Bellatrix.

"What about the Malfoys?"

At _that_ mention, Hermione closed the book in her lap and looked up. Both of her parents were waiting for Kingsley to weigh-in.

"Well," the Minister said, steepling his fingers in front of him. "I would consider their invitation cautiously. Their past ties and actions have not put them in very good standing with the rest of Wizarding Britain."

"Oh, but Mum, you _have_ to invite them." The words were out of Hermione's mouth before she even realized she'd spoken. She hadn't even thought it through, but hadn't she already more-or-less told Draco his family _would_ be invited?

"Well . . . ." The young women set aside her book and stood, scrambling for a reasonable explanation for her abrupt input. "You were friends with people who were on both sides of the War before you . . . well, went into hiding, shall we say, weren't you?"

"Of course we were," Dahlia said with a nod, her eyes narrowing in suspicion—they'd already told Hermione as much, so this sort of lead-in could only mean their daughter was up to something.

"And did that list of friends include Narcissa Malfoy?"

Dahlia nodded, once more.

"Okay, then. Well, what if this ball could be about more than just me, and your return to Wizarding Britain?"

Her parents and the Minster all waited patiently for her to elaborate.

Hermione forced a grin as she clasped her hands behind her back to keep herself from fidgeting under her mother's scrutiny. "What if we can make it an event that celebrates the reunification of Wizarding Britain in the wake of the War? And the way we do _that_ is by inviting everyone we can. Pure-blood, Muggle-born, their side, our side." _Anyone who_ isn't _an imprisoned Death Eater_ —but she chose to keep _that_ particular clarification to herself, as that seemed like a given. "We open our doors to as many people as we can to remind them all that we're part of the same community, and we _need_ one another if repairing all the harm done to Wizarding Britain is ever going to work."

. . . Okay, so she'd gotten a _bit_ carried away and impassioned, but as the words had fallen from her lips, Hermione knew she felt every one of them to be true.

"All right, Hermione," Dahlia said with a smile. "It's for _you_ , so we'll do as you think best."

Kingsley had turned fully in his seat, nodding as he gave the young witch an appraising look. "Let us hope you're interested in diplomatic post, should you ever choose to work at the Ministry."

Hermione beamed, feeling a bit Luna-like as she bounced on the balls of her feet. "Oh, and Mum?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do make sure you invite the Parkinsons, too."

* * *

"Draco!"

The young man jumped at the sound of his father's voice ringing through the house. He was as startled as he was relieved—he'd not heard Father bellow in _ages_.

"Draco," Narcissa echoed, her tone far gentler than her husband's. "Please come down; we need to speak."

Draco schooled his features. He'd not written back to Granger in the two days since her last letter—he still refused to call her Dagworth, it just didn't feel right. He'd simply had no idea what to say to her revelation. But now, hearing his father like that . . . . He wondered if _perhaps_ not following up with her had been a mistake.

After all, hadn't she warned him they might receive some invitation, or something?

He could already imagine Lucius standing at the bottom of the staircase, his foot tapping impatiently. Mother likely stood behind him, anxiously waiting to explain to Draco the reason for Father's outburst with carefully mouthed words.

Sighing, he set down the book he'd been reading and stood, crossing the room. "One moment," he hollered as he opened the door—a preemptive measure to keep Lucius from shouting, again.

As he made his way along the corridor to the staircase, he braced himself. Whatever they were going to say, whatever they might ask, he had _no_ answers for them, at all.

Letting out a breath, he nodded to himself and turned, starting down the steps.

Sure enough, there at the bottom his father stood, holding a missive open in his hand.

Unable to help himself, Draco asked, "You bellowed?"

Father opened his mouth to reply, but Narcissa shouldered him aside, effectively cutting off whatever he might say.

"It seems we have been invited to a ball, welcoming the Dagworths back to Wizarding Britain," Mother said by the time he reached the middle of the staircase.

Her attempt to diffuse Lucius wasn't too painfully obvious, thank Merlin.

"Oh, Father, didn't you mention knowing the Dagworths?"

Lucius' nostrils flared. "I did. It seems that the attendees will also bear witness to their daughter's addition to the pure-blood register."

Draco kept his expression carefully blank. He shrugged and nodded, prompting his father to go on.

"Their daughter _Hermione_ ," Narcissa filled in, her hand on Lucius' shoulder.

"Oh." Draco forced his eyebrows as high on his forehead as he could manage. "Hermione _Granger_? I'm not sure I understand what's happening."

Lucius looked unconvinced. "The two of you have been maintaining correspondence recently. Are you certain she did not tell you anything about this . . . _unexpected_ turn of events?"

The younger wizard forced a gulp down his throat. "Well, she, um, she _did_ say there was something she'd learned that everyone would probably find out about by the time we returned to Hogwarts. She said she couldn't tell me what it was, though."

There! That was _sort_ _of_ truthful. If Father thought back on the letter from Granger he'd looked over the other day, he might remember glimpsing those very words.

Lucius' grey eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Fine."

"I suppose I will owl Dahlia. Perhaps she and I can meet for tea and catch up. I would like to learn more about this development directly _before_ the ball." Narcissa spun on her heel and started for the study.

Draco pursed his lips as he watched his mother walk away. When he turned his attention back to his father, Lucius was still watching him with suspicion etching his features.

"So when, um . . . when is it?"

"In two weeks; I imagine they are in a hurry to have this event _before_ start of year at Hogwarts. _Do_ remember you are in need of new dress robes." With that, Father turned and stalked away.

When his footfalls vanished into the parlor, Draco exhaled sharply. His entire frame slumped and he was actually surprised the sudden release of tension from his body hadn't dropped him to the floor.


	6. The Secret

**Author's Notes :** This chapter mentions Death Eater Antonin Dolohov's mother being from the Shafiq [Sacred 28] family. Although I have also used this in another story as background, there is no canon for support this, based on how little canon there is about this character.

This is the last of the pre-written chapters. From here on out, _Glass Heart_ moves from weekly updates to *Sporadic Updates*

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

The Secret

The following day, as Hermione made mental preparations for her memorial service for Deidre and William Granger, she noticed her mother reading a missive. It seemed a bit early in the day for post—and certainly was too soon for anyone to have responded to the invitations, already. She didn't recognize the delicate, looping script on the face of the envelope, but she felt as though it might be familiar—that she had possibly seen it somewhere, before.

Then she reached across the table and turned it over. "Oh, Mrs. Malfoy wrote you?"

Dahlia looked up for a moment, nodding. "Yes, she's coming for tea, so we can catch up."

Hermione's brows pinched together, but she only nodded—the Dagworths had been friends with everyone, after all. "That's, um, nice. When?"

"This afternoon."

The girl coughed into the cup of juice she'd been sipping.

Dahlia met her daughter's gaze, mirroring the younger witch's expression from a second before. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, um, yes," Hermione said with a small, forced smile. "Do you . . . know if she intends to bring her son along?"

The distinct crinkling of paper met her ears, and Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, Warn had lowered the issue of the Daily Prophet he'd been perusing to afford her his undivided attention.

Mum, too, was regarding her with raised brows.

That was when Hermione remembered . . . . They were pure-bloods, she was of the age to start seriously considering _suitors_ , they were aware she and Draco had been maintaining correspondence . . . . _Oh, bollocks_.

She forced a gulp, lowering her gaze to the rim of her glass. "I, um, I'm just wondering, as we've only _recently_ become friends, and it might be a little . . . odd." Surely, it was only her embarrassment at her parents' sudden scrutiny that caused the flare of color in her cheeks—it couldn't possibly have _anything_ to do with the idea of seeing Draco so unexpectedly.

They were _only_ friends, after all—and _barely_ even that!

Hermione ignored the glance her parents shared just before Dad went back to his reading.

"She did not say either way, but there's always the possibility she might, of course."

"Of course," Hermione said with a forced grin and promptly dropped her attention back to her lunch.

She barely touched another bite, though, merely pushing the food around her plate with her fork. The sudden, inexplicable rush of butterflies through her stomach made eating anything more an impossibility.

She was simply nervous, because this would be her first time seeing Narcissa—and possibly Draco—since the end of the War. Yes, that was _all_ she was feeling. She still hadn't let them know what she'd gone through during the War, and she was rather sure none of the Malfoys were going to divulge any information that might damage their standing with her parents, either.

As she excused herself from the table to start preparing for what was likely to be an emotionally taxing afternoon, she ignored that she felt both of her parents' gazes on her. Walking out of the room, she barely refrained from mentioning to them that she was in such a hurry to prepare for the memorial service, and nothing to do with idea she might see _Narcissa Malfoy's son._

But there was that saying about protesting too much.

* * *

Draco blinked at his mother from where he lounged on the window seat of his room. The woman seemed a bit . . . distracted all through breakfast and lunch, but he'd imagined she was only tumbling this news about her long-missing friend, Dahlia Dagworth, around in her head.

Yet _now_ , Mother twittered about his room, pulling items from his wardrobe and setting them out on the bed.

Arching a brow at the suspicious behavior, Draco stood and crossed the room on cautious steps. "You are aware I know how to dress myself, aren't you?" He waved a hand toward his own, already competently attired, form in way of example.

Narcissa nodded, giving him a mirthless smirk—an expression that showed just how long she and Lucius Malfoy had been together. "Yes, of course. But I would like you to look _perfect_ this afternoon."

His brows drew together as he nodded. "Sure, okay. Here's a question: Why?"

She forced a grin. "I'm seeing Dahlia Dagworth for tea . . . and you are accompanying me."

Mother had spun on her heel and headed to the door before Draco had a chance to process her words. By the time he sputtered a protest, she was in the corridor, his bedroom door closed between them.

* * *

Lucius looked up from his paper, his brow furrowing at the way his son rushed into the room. Draco looked more flustered than usual, but he wasn't certain if the cause was something noteworthy, what with the young man's flair for dramatics.

Catching his father's gaze, Draco pivoted to face his father fully, but kept his voice low as he asked, "Is Mother . . . ." The younger wizard's grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Up to _something_?"

Lucius couldn't help a quick chuckle as he went right back to his reading. "I am certain I have no idea what you mean."

Draco couldn't be sure if his father was being truthful, or only playing at his ignorance. "She is dragging me with her to tea at the Dagworth Estate, and insisting _I_ have to look perfect. Why?"

"I would imagine your mother wishes you to make a good first impression on Warn and Dahlia Dagworth," Lucius said with a shrug.

"I guessed as much." Groaning, Draco shook a finger in the air. "I swear if this is some courtship thing—"

"If it _is_ , then you will do as your mother thinks is best."

His jaw falling open, the younger Malfoy stumbled to the chair opposite his father's and fell into it. "Tell me you're joking. After everything our family's put Hermione _Granger_ through?"

"I should think that is _precisely_ why she is insistent on this."

Draco frowned. "I don't follow."

Lucius set his paper aside, pinching between his brows with thumb and forefinger. "Even if courtship is not on her mind, winning over the Dagworths after everything our family has done _is_ a rather good idea," he said, his voice tired, but—as with his bellowing last night—Lucius Malfoy was sounding more like himself than he had since the War's end. "I do not imagine she would be terribly disappointed, however, if you did begin courting _Miss Dagworth_."

"Funny, and all this time, I thought you wanted me to marry a daughter from one of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight families." Draco kept it to himself that _that_ was the only reason he'd allowed himself to continue on with Pansy as long as he had. If he'd felt he had a choice in the matter, he'd probably have shaken her off by the start of fourth year.

Lucius actually chuckled—a sound that unsettled his son, which only caused him to laugh harder. It had been so long since he'd had a good, genuine laugh at _anything_.

"I keep forgetting just how many truths were locked away when the Dagworths fled the First War," he said, drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Some, we did not even share with the Dark Lord."

Draco's eyes widen at that revelation. "Like what?"

"Like that the Dagworth line _was_ originally included in the list of Sacred families."

Shifting forward a bit in his seat, Draco propped his elbow on the armrest and clamped his hand over his mouth. The list was originally The Sacred Twenty- _Nine_? That almost didn't sound right, yet he doubted the exclusion was due to anything so simple as making the number even.

"As the story goes," Lucius said, shifting back and folding his hands before him, "in the 1930's, when Cantankerus Nott created the list from the pure-blood registry, Warn Dagworth's grandfather—Caius, if memory serves—made a bargain with him to keep their family's name from inclusion in the finalized publication."

Draco shook his head, the movement so slight, Lucius thought it was perhaps involuntary. "Why would they want exclusion, and what was the bargain?"

"That latter, no one is quite certain, but the Dagworths hold _many_ secrets and knowledges—many more than the rest of us—it was believed that one of these secrets had to do with the Nott family." Lucius shrugged, waving in a dismissive gesture. "It is believed they went as far as to threaten divulging that secret if he included their name."

"So Grang—?" Draco grumbled under his breath, giving himself a second. "So Hermione's great-grandfather _blackmailed_ Theo's great-great uncle?"

"Well, the story also holds that Cantankerus was not a very likable man, so _if_ that was what happened, I do not believe anyone would put up a fuss on his behalf." Lucius glanced at the Grandfather clock. If he didn't get through this quickly so Draco could get dressed in whatever _perfect_ attire Narcissa had set aside for him, they'd never hear the end of it. "The _why_ is simple, really. The Dagworths maintained a neutral standing in their dealing between pure-bloods and Muggle-borns. This helped them in their endeavors to secure precious artifacts from Muggle and Wizard lines, alike. They feared an inclusion in the publication would compromise this. While the Dark Lord's mother was of the Gaunt family, this is not a secret he ever would have been told, due to their tragic circumstances. Though, some have whispered that perhaps Caius had some _insight_ into future events in which he did not wish his family involved."

"You think a Seer made a prophecy about the First War?"

Lucius arched a brow as he smirked. "There were rumors that he enjoyed a rather close friendship with a witch from the Trewlaney family, supposedly such things are hereditary." He met his son's gaze unflinchingly. "Tell me you did not notice how _Voldemort_ drew his closest followers from the Sacred Twenty-Eight? He only knew that his Wizarding line was included, only knew that the family names within that list were considered the _purest_ of pure-bloods. There were exceptions, of course—Snape being of the Prince family, Dolohov of the Shafiq family, yet both _still_ managing to earn places by the Dark Lord's side, for example. If they'd been half-bloods from any other families . . . .

"But, what _is_ certain, is that they asked not to be included, and so they weren't. And all the children of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families are likely learning this truth, now, _just_ as you are."

"Merlin, she's going to be cross," Draco said in a murmur, a dazed light in his eyes. Granger—bloody hell, there he went, again— _Hermione_ was likely not pleased to have found herself a pure-blood, and would probably be even less so to learn her family was among the _purest_.

"Do not bring it up," Lucius cautioned as he picked up his paper, once more. "If this is to be discussed, let _her_ be the one to broach the subject."

Draco raked his fingers through his hair—he'd never been so confused by one statement. "Why the secrecy? You just told me—"

"I told you the children of the _Sacred Twenty-Eight_ are likely being informed of this. If your new friend is to hear this, it should be from Dahlia and Warn. If she hears it from you _before_ hearing it from her own parents, do you think _that_ will go over terribly well with them?"

"Probably not."

Lucius pursed his lips as he jutted his chin toward the doorway. "You should hurry, before your mother comes in here and hexes _both_ of us for you delaying her."

Nodding, Draco stood and started from the room. As he reached the entryway, he stopped, spinning on his heel to face Lucius. "I'm still confused. Are you and mother _hoping_ for a courtship?"

His father exhaled through his nostrils as he eyed his son over the top of the Daily Prophet. "I believe, for the time being, your mother is hoping you can secure forgiveness from _Miss_ Dagworth for our family's transgressions against her. But . . . do I think your mother would be pleased if you were to some day marry her friend's daughter? Yes."

The marriage talk was making Draco a bit green in the face, he was certain— they'd barely just become friends, and he was supposed to hope she might see him as a potential suitor, somehow?—but he forced the nerve-mangling sensation aside.

"And you, Father?"

Lucius settled back in his seat, snapping his paper as he turned the page. For a moment, it seemed he wouldn't answer.

"I will not pretend this . . . revelation has not been a lot to take in. I will also not pretend that I don't believe it is too much to ask for you to contemplate such a thing, given your history with the girl. However . . . ." There was an audible sigh from behind the paper. " _Many_ a wizard would consider himself lucky to marry a Dagworth witch, the Malfoy line very much included. I think by the time this ball arrives, you'll find she'll have many prospective suitors."

"You're suggesting that, _were_ I interested, I would have competition?"

"I am suggesting that if you do not put yourself into her good graces ahead of all that fuss, you may find that competition transpiring _without_ you."

Draco nodded, keeping his expression carefully schooled as he turned and headed back up to his room. Just when he'd thought the weight of his father's expectations had slid from his shoulders when the Dark Lord fell, here he was, again, with a whole new set to hoist up.

But, he considered, as he undressed to put on the _perfect_ attire his mother had chosen, he did suppose there were worse expectations to fulfill than getting close to Hermione Dagworth.

* * *

Hermione hurried down the stairs as she heard the tinkling bells of the front doors. Saphie stood there, already, greeting a party of four. The witch nearly stopped short at the sight of the ginger-haired wizard standing with Harry, Ginny, and Luna.

"Ronald Weasley, what are you doing here?"

The group turned to look at the newly-designated pure-blood making her way down the staircase.

"Mione," Ron said, breaking from the group to step toward her. "I came to say I'm sorry. I was total arse and—"

Hermione was in his arms, hugging him tight before he could finish.

A nudge in his ribs spurred Ron to continue. "And I'd really like it if we can go back to being friends."

Laughing, she pulled back to peer up at him at arm's length. "Of course, we can. I missed you. I'm happy you'll be here for this."

He smiled—the broad, slightly goofy grin that used to make her heart skip. She was a little surprised that now it only set her at ease, because it was a sign that things were really okay between them.

However . . . .

"Everyone, come in, please," she said as she dropped her arms from Ron to clasp her hands nervously before her. "That'll be all, Saphie."

The perky house elf, who'd been waiting beside the door all the while, nodded and _poofed_ from the foyer.

"I should warn you all that . . . today at lunch, I learned there might be one other person joining us this afternoon, and I _swear_ , I had nothing to do with this."

Just then, there was a chime signaling an arrival by Floo.

Hermione's shoulders slumped as all four of her friends turned their attention to her. "As it turns out, my mother was actually friends with Narcissa Malfoy. And so, when Narcissa owled Mum that she would visit for tea today—"

"Hermione, darling," Dahlia's cheerful voice rang out from the direction of the sitting room. "Narcissa and Draco are here."

Hermione uttered a quiet groan, burying her face in her hands.

Ginny and Luna snickered as a sour-faced Ron took a step toward the sitting room. He was only stopped by Harry's hand gripping his shoulder.

Shaking her head at her luck, Hermione turned on her heel, leading her friends across the main floor.


	7. The Memorial

**Chapter Seven**

The Memorial

Hermione followed along behind Ginny and Luna as her cousin led the way across the main floor. Harry was dragging a visibly less-than-pleased Ron along by his elbow behind the girls. The ginger and blonde witches disappeared through the grand archway that opened into the sitting room . . . and then Hermione narrowly avoided being bowled over by the two other young women as they immediately backpedaled from the room, moving as one.

Ginny looked at Luna, whose eyebrows were high on her forehead. "Well, that was unexpected."

Luna nodded. "I'd say."

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, barely refraining from rolling her eyes at their dramatics.

Ginny furrowed her brow at Luna and then jutted her chin in Hermione's direction. "Maybe we should just . . . ?"

Again, Luna nodded. "Yes, I think perhaps we should."

"Wha—?" Sooner than Hermione could finish the word, the other two witches moved beside her, each looping an arm around one of hers, and started her walking toward the archway.

"It's probably best you see for yourself."

"And you're both holding onto me because?"

Shrugging, Ginny murmured in her ear. "Because after what we just saw, given current circumstances, you just might run."

The brunette's eyes shot wide. "That doesn't sound good!"

Luna smirked. "Well, it's not exactly bad, either."

"Luna."

Looking around Hermione's head at Ginny, Luna blinked a few times, not understanding what the half-teasing, half-warning tone was for.

Then, as Hermione was pulled into the room, she understood. "Oh," was all she managed at first.

She never would've thought she'd be stopped in her tracks by Draco Malfoy, but there it was. The black suit he wore was perfectly fitted, drawing attention to shoulders that were broad for his lean frame. His pale-blond hair that was always so ordered and perfect in school was loose, a bit longish, and tousled ever-so-slightly. And from the way he scowled whenever Narcissa reached to tuck some wayward strands behind his ear, she'd guessed he'd had to fight before leaving Malfoy Manor to not have his hair forcibly styled. He even sported a neatly trimmed Van Dyke that added a certain air of maturity to his appearance.

The contrast of his just-this-side-of-messy locks and that maturity-adding facial hair to his perfectly fitted, perfectly ordered suit was . . . well, it was . . . .

As Draco stood there, he and both mothers not yet looking up to see the group clustered in the archway, Hermione nodded. "Good call on thinking I might run."

Had her whispered voice come out a little bit breathless just now?

That was when Mum noticed the bunch of them gathered there. She motioned for them to come closer as she crossed the floor. Small relief, her timing, in that Ron had just been about to start up again when he found Dahlia Dagworth staring at them all.

"Welcome. I'm aware you all know Narcissa and Draco, and I have met the rest of you, but who is this fine young gentleman?" Her charming smile had the ginger-haired wizard slack-jawed.

The moment reminded Hermione just how much lovelier her already-lovely-as-a-Muggle mother was as her true self. She was sure the dots of pink in Ron's cheeks weren't her imagination. Oh, Harry and Ginny were going to have a field day about him seeming to fancy his ex-girlfriend's mum!

Just then, Draco coughed out a rough breath. Hermione looked up to see Narcissa pulling a dainty arm from her son's side, while looking at the group with a small, polite smile. As though she _hadn't_ just elbowed the young man in his ribs. Pure-blood mothers were a scary thing, indeed.

Obviously, Draco had muttered something about Dahlia's _fine young gentleman_ comment that only Narcissa had been close enough to hear. Given the history between them, Hermione could just imagine what his response had been. In spite of herself, a tiny half-grin curved her lips.

Though he'd been scowling once again as he smoothed a palm over his side, he looked up in time to catch her amused expression. Not wanting Draco to misunderstand what she was smiling about—because he had just gotten injured by his own mother—she gave a subtle nod in Ron's direction as he introduced himself to Dahlia in a halting voice and shrugged. To her surprise, Draco dropped his gaze to the floor, a smile he was unsuccessfully trying to hide lighting his features.

She felt a giddy fluttering zip through the pit of her stomach. _Oh, bollocks_.

Dahlia turned to face her daughter, then, saving the younger Dagworth witch from herself. "Hermione, darling, will you all be staying for tea, or do you wish to get to the chapel straight away?"

"No tea, now. Maybe after," Hermione said with a shake of her head, even as she clasped her mother's hands in her own. Her dynamic with Dahlia was much more touchy-feely than the one she'd had with Deidre Granger; near every conversation included hand-holding or an arm around her shoulders. She wondered if that was just because the woman before her was a different person, or because it was part of both of them trying to make up for lost time.

"But first, I'd like a word with Mrs. Malfoy in private." She looked from her mother to Narcissa, and back. "If that's all right with both of you, of course."

The elder witches exchanged a glance before they both nodded. Hermione could see that yes, they certainly had been friends years ago if they could read each other's faces so easily. She could _also_ see, from the corner of her eye, the way her friends all turned to look at her.

Meeting each of their gazes, in turn, she held up a placating hand. "It's important."

Narcissa crossed to the archway, rounding the group, and disappeared beyond it. Hermione nodded to her friends and her mother, aware of Draco's mystified gaze on her, as well, before she followed.

Narcissa—clearly familiar with the layout of the house even a near-two decades since she'd last walked its halls—went straight to the sunroom and entered, not glancing back to see if Hermione followed. As Hermione caught up, she found Narcissa casting a silencing charm on the space.

"I assume you don't want to be overheard," she offered with a small smile and a shrug.

"You assume correctly, thank you." Hermione nodded. "This will only take a moment, but as I said, it's important."

Finishing with her charm, Narcissa lowered her arm. Slipping her wand into her sleeve, she nodded back as she clasped her hands before her. "Let me first say I'm sorry for what happened to you. Not . . . not due to the news of your parentage, I was _always_ sorry. No one deserved to have Bellatrix's wrath focused on them."

Hermione was a bit taken aback by the spontaneous apology. She supposed she should've expected it, Narcissa Malfoy was nothing if not proper, but still.

Frowning, the younger witch shook her head. "Thank you. Though, I suppose it is a little unnecessary. I don't hold you responsible for your sister's actions. I don't hold _anyone_ responsible for the actions of another. Well, unless they're acting under duress, of course."

Narcissa understood Hermione's insistence on clarifying. Some actions taken during the War could justifiably be blamed on the Dark Lord's malevolent and choking influence, others were simply heinous acts committed because the lunatic committing them had the freedom to do so.

"I appreciate that very much. Now, you have my undivided attention."

"I just . . . ." Hermione furrowed her brow, giving her head a shake and trying again. She'd never imagined she'd be _here_. "I thought you might be concerned as to the things my parents might've heard about your family during the War, about what you can say, what you shouldn't say. And so I just wanted to let you know that I haven't told them about what happened to me at the Manor during the War."

Narcissa's face fell. Seemingly in spite of herself, she brought up her hand to press over her heart.

"No one else, outside of the people who were there, knows what _really_ went on that day. There are stories and guesses, but no one else knows the truth of it. I didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to hear about it, and Harry and Ron respected that. And I'm keeping it to only those who already know. Harry's agreed to, also. Ron's not happy about it, but Harry talked him into agreeing, as well. My parents know which side you were on, that it hadn't changed since the First War, that the Dark Lord tortured your family and took over your home, that you lost your sister in the final battle, and crossed battle lines to fight against your fellow Death Eaters, but that's the _extent_ of what they know. Same as the rest of Wizarding Britain." The younger witch inhaled deeply and shrugged. "There's no way for _any_ of us to move forward if we keep picking at our wounds."

She nearly fell over when she saw what she knew could only be tears gathering in Narcissa Malfoy's eyes.

"Here, I've been trying to keep so collected whilst worrying over how I would work up to explaining my sister's actions. I thought perhaps Dahlia was being so gracious, simply biding her time, waiting for _me_ to broach the subject." Narcissa blinked rapidly a few times, banishing the dampness in her bright blue eyes. "I had no idea you'd be so thoughtful."

Hermione laughed. "Don't misunderstand, there was certainly a time when I would've loved to hold this over your family's heads, but . . . . There's just been too much pain and loss. My parents have had so much time ripped away from them. I can't bear to hurt them more by taking away the friends they remember having."

The blonde witch tapped her fingers to the tip of her nose as she drew a breath. After a calming couple of seconds, she dropped her hand back down before her. "We didn't know each other well before, Miss Dagworth, but for whatever faults you imagine you have, I can see you are a remarkable young woman, and that has _nothing_ to do with your birthright. You probably are still bristling over the idea of being a pure-blood after all that you've been through, but I think _we_ would do well to have more like you among us."

For a few heartbeats, Hermione had no idea what to say. Nodding, she cleared her throat. "I think they're doing all right if they can all come to the same understandings as you have, Mrs. Malfoy."

Aware they were finished there, Narcissa dispelled the charm. As they started from the room, Hermione asked in a whisper, "So, about Draco's hair . . . ?"

The elder witch gave her a sidelong glance as she snickered. "He wouldn't let me near it. Even threatened to hex his own mother if I put anything in it! Looks dreadful."

"I don't know." Hermione smirked. "Messy hair isn't entirely out-of-fashion right now. _I_ don't think it's so bad."

Once more, Narcissa looked at the young woman from the corner of her eye, but this time her gaze held as she spoke. "I shall keep that in mind in the future."

Though she tried not to think Narcissa Malfoy was making any decisions for her sake, Hermione was sure she'd have to let Draco know _she_ was the one to thank that his mother would no longer be chasing him about Malfoy Manor with a comb and whatever-the-bloody-hell she used to slick his hair back like that.

* * *

"He's coming with us for the memorial?" Ron asked, his brows high, but his eyes narrowed in that strangely mingled expression of anger and confusion only a Weasley could manage.

Hermione whirled on her heel to face him, a pained smile on her face. Harry's brows shot up and he backpedaled from that look. She supposed it wouldn't do to tell him she'd had to say Draco was her friend so her parents didn't think too long on the letters they'd been exchanging.

"Ronald Weasley," she said in a hissing whisper, "either he comes with us, or he stays here. With my mother. Making pure-blood small talk over tea and biscuits."

Though he hated it, Ron understood the implication that Draco might use the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Dahlia Dagworth. Sure, he might've single-handedly blown his own chances with Hermione, but he'd be damned if Malfoy was going to have a shot.

"Okay, fine. No more bellyaching from me," he said with a roll of his eyes.

Ginny and Harry spoke in the same breath as they responded, "About time."

Feeling a little bad for Ron, who managed to look like a puppy who'd just been kicked, Hermione touched her hand to his elbow. "It'll be fine, Ron. This is for _me,_ and I'm okay with him being there." She tried for an encouraging smile, but given his disposition at the moment, she wasn't sure if it worked.

Finally, he nodded, and everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. He might understand that they were all trying to be there for her, but Ron was just as likely to _accidentally_ create a scene over how concerned he was that having Draco that would be a scene in itself.

* * *

No one expected the trek across the Dagworth Estate grounds it would be just to reach the chapel. Mum had told Hermione that it was just past the two gazebos nearest the gold fountain . . . she'd neglected to mention _how_ far past.

"Think we'll all need coffee when we get back to the house," she said with a nod as they all stared up at the charmingly antiquated grey-stone edifice.

"Think now that we know where it is, we'll Apparrate here if we ever need to come back," Ron said with a sigh and a shake of his head.

"I'll say." Draco surprised everyone by agreeing with a Weasley. "How big _are_ these grounds?"

. . . And then Ron killed the teeny moment of camaraderie. "Jealous she's richer than you, now?"

Hermione and Harry both turned toward Ron, ready to give delicate reprimands about this not being the time, but Draco spoke before either of them could get a word out.

"Can't you stow it for just one afternoon, Weasley?" Flicking his gaze over Ron in a quick, dissatisfied once-over, he shook his head. "We're here for your friend, not for your _ego_. Grow up."

Hermione and Harry exchanged a glance, mirroring one another's expressions as their brows shot up their foreheads. Luna folded her lips inward and Ginny winced. Ron looked truly at a loss for what to say—at least, he scrambled for something to say that wouldn't sound like some incredibly lame schoolyard comeback—and Draco seemed to genuinely not notice the silent fuss as he turned and pushed open one of the chapel's doors.

In the wake of that barbed comment, the group was silent as they filed in behind Draco. Hermione gave Ron a comforting pat on his shoulder as he took a seat in one of the pews and she moved past him toward the altar. She knew he meant well . . . most of the time. But now, with the combination of his own bruised pride, her tentative friendship with Draco, and everything that was changing around them, it was no wonder he was trying to let off some steam with quips here and there.

That still didn't make this the time or place for that.

She set a scroll atop the altar. After fishing some photographs of Deidre and William Granger from her bag to set beside it, she withdrew a shrunken bit of porcelain and enlarged it to its proper size before placing what turned out to be an exquisitely-painted urn at the far end. Circling the dais, she lit the candles stationed around the chapel's small, but blisteringly beautiful interior.

Coming back to stand before the collection of items, she clasped her hands before her and looked out at the group of her . . . . Oh, hell, even with Draco there, she supposed there was no harm in calling them _all_ her friends.

"I want to thank you all for being here with me, today. I really . . . ." She shrugged as she let her voice trail off. Here, she'd thought she was all right with this, that she'd come to terms with it, but she could already feel tears clogging the back of her throat now that she was truly bidding the Grangers farewell.

"I really don't know what to say or do, so I'm sort of just . . . winging it. I'm going to say what I need to say to the people who raised me, then if anyone has anything they'd like to add, any memories, or just kind words, I'll invite you to come up when I've finished. Then the items on the altar will be burned, and the ashes placed in the urn. I've gotten permission from my parents to lay their memory to rest in our family's mausoleum."

She looked around again. Everyone wore solemn expressions. Everyone except cousin Luna, who granted her a bright grin. Strangely, it was that bright grin she needed right then. The somber tone of the others' faces only reminded her more sharply of her own pain.

Returning Luna's smile as best she could she nodded and went on. "Deidre and William Granger were dentists . . . I remember the pure-bloods I've met being so curious and intrigued, and maybe even a little bit disgusted when they learned what that meant," she started with a laugh. "I suppose it is a strange thing to decide you've a passion for. But that wasn't all. William loved spy novels. Deidre loved her gardening. He had a fondness for terrible jokes, but no matter how bad a joke was, she always laughed, because it put a smile on his face. They loved each other and they loved me. I see in them, still, moments of the people I remember. I see Warn Dagworth so easily engrossed in tales of Aurors infiltrating Dark wizarding ranks, and Dahlia getting so enamored of the blossoms in our gardens when she discusses them with the elves."

Sniffling, she nodded to herself. "I know they're still _them_ , yet they're not. And I can't move forward in my new life as the daughter of Dahlia and Warn Dagworth until I say goodbye to Deidre and William Granger." She folded her lips inward, blinking rapidly a few times as she turned to face the altar. Touching a hand to the scroll—she'd written their names, their birthdates, today's date, and her fondest memories of them on it—she gave herself a shake, refusing to cry. "And so . . . goodbye Mum and Dad. I know you're still with me. You'll _always_ be with me."

Silence fell as she stood there, staring at the photographs. Tracing a fingertip over each of their images, in turn, she gave herself another nod. Pivoting back to face everyone, she stepped aside.

"Anyone else want to come up?"

Everyone managed a story about Deidre and William Granger. Harry about the first time he'd met them and how lost, yet excited, they'd seemed escorting their witch-daughter through Diagon Alley. Ginny about the time she surmised that Deidre didn't _really_ understand her own daughter's hair, since the barrettes she'd purchased for Hermione while vacationing in France—though gorgeous—didn't seem strong enough to hold back a doll's hair, let alone Hermione's wild mane. Luna about catching William ordering off-menu at Fortescue's. She recalled that she wasn't certain if the proprietor was flustered at the unusual request, or thrilled at the challenge presented by conjuring a lime-and-blueberry sherbet.

Hermione was somewhere firmly between laughing and crying by the time they were all done. As she was about to return to the altar to begin incinerating the items, there was an awkward throat-clearing.

Turning to face the pews, she was surprised to see Draco climbing to his feet. His gaze meeting hers, he shrugged. "May I say something?"

She knew her eyes shot wide, but she could hardly help it—this was not something she expected. "Um, sure." Though she didn't look over, she was painfully cognizant of Ron watching the other wizard with an aghast look.

Nodding, Draco stepped out into the aisle. He approached with his hands in his pockets, as though he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself. Offering Hermione a quick, pained smile, he turned toward the group, as the others had.

"I don't have any personal memories of the Grangers, like the rest of you." He shrugged again, shaking his head. "I only saw them once, that very same day most of you met them. I remember my father being _so_ upset there were Muggles in Diagon Alley. _The horror!_ It was odd, but I remember thinking it was brave of them." His eyes narrowing, he nodded. "Not because it should be scary, but I thought they must know how people were looking at them. They must know there were others staring at them the same way he was. But they didn't even seem to notice, they were too busy beaming over this insufferable know-it-all."

Hermione snickered in spite of herself, shaking her head.

He glanced at her, seeming to study her features for a moment before he dropped his gaze to the floor and went on. "But I didn't know them. What I know about them, is they did something right, because for whatever else they did, or were, they raised that insufferable know it all with everything it took to become a war hero . . . with everything it took to be a decent person, even when the world was against her. And so, I may not have known them, but if they're an example of what your average Muggle is really like, well, then maybe the lot of them aren't as bad as I was raised to believe."

He didn't look back at Hermione as he stepped down and went back to his seat. Everyone was stunned by his words, even Ron, though Ron looked mildly horrified as he realized . . . . Draco Malfoy didn't just appear more mature than he'd been at War's End. He'd _actually_ grown up in the months since.

Ron knew the jealousy he felt at the way Hermione watched the pale-haired wizard in that moment was petty. Petty and small. Draco Malfoy, of all people, had just done something that eased some of Hermione's suffering, and yet, _he_ had vowed to not let them get close? He hated Draco Malfoy, but he knew he could never hate Hermione. She didn't deserve him making anything harder for her.

He couldn't believe it, but Draco was right.

Even if only for his own sake, he needed to grow up, too.


	8. The Uncertainty

**Chapter Eight**

The Uncertainty

A shadow moved into the field of splotchy brightness behind her closed eyelids. With a sigh, Hermione felt her shoulders sag against the soft grass upon which she lay. She didn't open her eyes, as she knew—or thought she knew—who it was.

"Granger," Draco said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.

Of course they'd send him to fetch her. It seemed ever since the day of the Grangers' memorial—near a week ago now—every chance they got, Narcissa and Dahlia were sending them off together for some reason or another, as though the 'children' didn't recognize _that_ for what it was. Once the elder witches' friendship had been firmly reestablished, Dahlia had made no secret of wanting her old friend's aid in hosting this infernal ball, and Narcissa made no secret of how eager she was to accept. Funny, before all this, Hermione hadn't even been sure Narcissa Malfoy possessed a single warm bone in her entire body, yet in that moment, the pale-haired woman's genuine smile had positively lit up the parlor.

She supposed she should simply be grateful that only two of the three Malfoys made themselves such a constant presence in the Dagworth home. The very thought of Lucius Malfoy still unnerved Hermione a little—even brought to his lowest by the Dark Lord during the Second Wizarding War, that man had a certain air about him. A constant edge. If not intimidating in that he was fully capable of browbeating some unsuspecting party to tears with only a few, stinging choice words, then in that he seemed ready to snap and unleash the weight of his burdens in a fierce, lashing curse so primal it did not need a name to call upon its magic.

Grateful, yes. So grateful she chose to stop thinking of such grave observations and focus on the day, itself. Not the dreaded upcoming ball, not the constant influx of visitors to her new home quickly becoming part of daily life, not Draco's still-scary father.

"You do know that's no longer my name, right?" she asked in a subdued voice.

"Huh. Is _that_ what all this recent fuss has been about? I hadn't noticed." He exhaled a quiet laugh. "Figured there's only a limited window of time left for me to get away with calling you that. Trying to make the most of it."

"Going to miss it?"

"Maybe. A little."

She smiled, simply enjoying the hush of the expansive grounds and the warmth of the sun on her face. "Never pegged you for the sentimental sort, Malfoy."

The wizard laughed again. "Oh, shut it, you."

"What do those wretched women want now? I suspect it's their fault you're standing in my sun?"

"You'd be right, of course." There was a rustling in the grass beside her and a soft, breathed _oomph_. She pictured Draco dropping himself to the ground and stretching out to lie back not far from her. "Something about a final fitting? Your dress robes for the ball need to be _perfect_ , apparently."

"Of course they do."

When she proceeded to not move a muscle, there was rustling in the grass once more. She opened her eyes, shielding them from the direct sunlight with a crooked arm in the air. Draco had, indeed, sprawled in the grass so that for a few moments there, they'd been resting with their heads side-by-side in the springy green blades. Now, he was propped up on his elbows and staring down at her, his expression questioning.

Frowning, she asked, "What?"

"Our mothers are both expecting you and you're just, what? Not going to go?" He shrugged. "It's only . . . those are two witches whose wrong sides I would _not_ want to be on."

"Bah." She waved dismissively with her other hand. "I'm not 'not' going, I'm just not going _yet_. It's been mad house in there all bloody week. I simply need a break, is all."

"By not insisting you go back—"

"Which you're not," she interrupted him to point out.

Shaking his head, he smirked. "Which I'm not. But by you . . . choosing to take your time, and me not insisting you don't, you're making me an accomplice in your tardiness."

The witch smiled. "Well, you could always at least _try_ to insist."

"I'm smart enough to give up soon as I know a battle is lost, Granger." He _oomphed_ right back into the grass and clasped his hands behind his head. "The property's rather large, maybe I'll just tell them I had trouble tracking you down."

"That's the spirit, Malfoy."

He snickered and the pair lapsed into a lazy silence for several peaceful minutes.

Yet, it was that lazy, peaceful silence between them that—rather suddenly and inexplicably—bothered her. Oh, sure, they were both trying to make the best of the awkward situation their mothers had foisted upon them, but this . . . reticence, this easy acceptance, the simple matter of them not arguing, was just so not _them_.

"Malfoy?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think if we . . . if we'd been raised like this, we might've actually been friends?"

He sighed. "Probably. We're not that dissimilar after all, are we?"

"Stubborn, judgmental, short-fused . . . ." Hermione shrugged. "And that's just the good qualities."

"You're horrible," Draco responded, humor edging his voice. "You're not wrong, though. Just horrible."

She laughed, but sooner than she could let her eyes drift closed once more, there was a distinct popping sound from somewhere nearby. Wincing, she looked toward the noise.

There stood Saphie, her long-fingered hands propped on her tiny hips in a very former-nursemaid fashion. "An' here Saphie thought Miss was off somewheres, but here Miss is with the boy."

"Now we're in trouble," Hermione said with a sigh as she and Draco pulled themselves to sit up.

"Also," Draco started, frowning, "did she just call me 'the boy'?"

The witch pursed her lips to hold back a grin as she stood. "I'm sorry, Saphie. We really didn't mean for Mum to have to send you, we just wanted a moment of quiet."

"Well, Saphie supposes that makes sense. Miss never did like fusses, even when she was so, so small."

Hermione couldn't help but feel equally warmed and saddened whenever Saphie so effortlessly connected their shared past and present, as though the section in the middle—where they were separated from one another—simply didn't exist. It made her wonder how elves actually perceived the passage of time. Clearly it must be different from how humans and other, shorter-lived creatures—

"Granger!"

Giving herself a shake, she looked up at Draco. "What?"

"You were making your deep ponderings face. Thought if you didn't break out of it, we might be here a while."

She hadn't even realized she'd been looking outward in a bit of a daze as she let her mind run off. Perhaps she was in need of a nap, it had been a rather long few weeks. "Oh." She ignored that he recognized her 'deep ponderings' face, after all, they'd known each other for years, such recognition couldn't possibly be significant in any sort of . . . emotionally complicated way. "Right, sorry."

"Well, then, Miss and the boy will hurry along, now."

"Yes, Saphie," they pair answered in unison. Hermione had to hold back a laugh at how much they both sounded like scolded children.

* * *

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, there you two are."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione halted mid-stride in the foyer at her mother's voice. Whatever was so urgent about a ruddy fitting for dress robes?

"Honestly, Mum. The ball is next week. I'm sure there's plenty of time to—"

"Oh, no, my darling. This isn't about that." As Dahlia and Narcissa waved their children toward where they waited in the open doorway of the sunroom, Hermione's mother stopped. She pressed a finger to her chin. "Well, it is, but it also isn't."

A pensive scowl playing across her features, Hermione looked over at Draco. Apparently sensing the weight of her gaze on him, he turned his head, his eyes meeting hers in something like confusion.

He shrugged, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, don't look at me. When they sent me to get you, it was _only_ about the fitting."

Shaking her head, Hermione held in a sigh and continued on toward the sunroom. The elder witches returned inside, entering ahead of their children. Was that the hoot of an owl? At this time of day, that sound could only mean one thing. Post had arrived.

That simple notice left Hermione fully expecting her mother to hand over her Hogwarts letter for her final year when she stepped into the room. Typically the letters arrived earlier in August than this, but given that the school had just finished recovering from the damage done in May during the final battle of the War, Wizarding Britain had expressed sympathy, as well as a general understanding and forgiveness about their late sending. Narcissa and Dahlia resumed their seats around the fine lead crystal-topped table and each held up a familiar parchment envelope.

"Oh." Draco blinked, frowning in unpleasant surprise. "Didn't think they'd send my letter here."

Hermione offered him a shrug as she took her envelope from Dahlia's delicate hand and immediately set to breaking the red wax seal holding it shut. "I remember there were times Harry's letter arrived at the Weasleys' house, even when no one else should've been aware that's where he was. I think there must be some kind of charm or enchantment the headmaster—or headmistress, in Professor McGonagall's case—uses in order to direct the start of term letters accordingly."

"It's so interesting how even though you _technically_ weren't the one who raised her, she speaks exactly like you did when we were younger, Dahlia" Narcissa observed aloud, her voice soft and thoughtful. "Rather like listening to an encyclopedia with a voice box . . . but more pleasant, I suppose," she tacked on with a faint grimace colouring her pale, flawless features, clearly realizing her words could be construed as less than flattering.

Whether or not Hermione considered the comparison an insult seemed a moot point as her mother laughed—a rich, warm sound—and waved dismissively. "You know, I had thought the same thing, but I wasn't certain if it was simply that I wanted to imagine the similarity between us. Thank you."

Hermione, for her part, pressed her lips into a line, her gaze darting back and forth between the elder witches. The comparison to Dahlia Dagworth when she was younger was sweet, the comparison to a talking encyclopedia not so much.

Returning her attention to the letter in her hand, Hermione slipped it free of the envelope and unfolded it. Draco followed suit shortly thereafter.

"Oh . . ." she said after a moment of skimming the careful, neat calligraphy scrawl.

Her tone raised the hairs on the back of Malfoy's neck. His letter only half-unfolded, he eyed it warily before turning his head to look at her. "Oh?" he echoed.

She nodded, but it was a stiff, somewhat lifeless motion. "I suspected they might do this in light of the War's events, but I didn't actually _believe_ it was going to happen."

Snapping open his own letter finally, he read over what troubled Granger. Draco nodded in much the same way she had, his grey eyes dull for a moment. "Oh," he said again.

Their mothers exchanged a worried glance at their children's reactions to what should be simple start-of-term letters and supply and reading material lists. "Whatever is the matter with you two?" Dahlia asked for the both of them.

"Nothing is really . . . really the matter, I suppose, but . . . ." Hermione didn't quite know what it was about this information that bothered her so. Maybe it was that the one thing she hoped would remain unchanged after everything in her life that had been upheaved with this revelation about her parents' true identities was her time at Hogwarts. Maybe it was the simple idea of going through that uncertainty all over again. The first time around, she'd been a nervous wreck. Of course, she'd been new to the Wizarding world then, a Muggle-born among those raised with magic as part of their daily lives.

A child under the impression that it meant so very much.

"But?" Narcissa echoed, her pale blue eyes wide with concern as she shook her head expectantly. "What is it?"

"She's right," Draco said, his voice hollow as he refolded his letter and slipped it back inside its envelope. "It's nothing, really." Yet, even as he agreed, there was a feeling in the pit of his gut to match his voice. What would this mean?

"Oh, Dear Lord, such melodrama!" Dahlia reached over and tugged the letter from her daughter's fingers, the movement quick but gentle. "Teenagers."

She turned so that she and Narcissa could read its contents together, even as she voiced the words. " _Dear Miss Dagworth_ —well, I don't suppose I should surprised the faculty is already in the loop— _as we welcome our students back for another year at Hogwarts, we are obligated to inform you that at the Welcome Feast, there will be a Resorting of the returning student body. While we understand this may seem inconvenient for some, the dreadful times we have endured together recently have tested all of us in unexpected ways. Additionally, for the first time in the school's history, Slytherin House will accept Muggle-born students. Please find your supply and reading lists below, sincerely Headmistress Minerva McGonagall._ "

Dahlia refolded the letter, arching a brow. "Well, Slytherin House accepting Muggle-borns. About time."

Narcissa's reaction was somewhat . . . _different_ than her friend's. "Oh dear," she said in a whisper, her gaze distant. "I can see this ruffling some feathers."

There was a deep furrow in Draco's forehead as he imagined the reaction his father would have to this news. He tried not to imagine what would happen if the Resorting set Draco in a House other than Slytherin.

Hermione seemed far away in that moment, too. She hadn't expected any kind of personal note from her favorite professor, despite that she thought they were close for teacher and student, and she suspected Professor McGonagall wanted to speak with her very much about all this Dagworth business. But the Hogwarts letters were generic, so the lack of any deeper sentiment did not bother her. No, it was the Resorting. Sure, maybe she could end up in Ravenclaw, finally, and Warn Dagworth would beam. But what if not that? These 'dreadful times' they'd all endured . . . . Hermione had deceived and plotted behind allies backs and studied the Dark Arts, all for furthering their goals. All to suit an _ambition_.

She swallowed hard as she ran through the notable traits of each House in her head, as though she needed a reminder of which of them mentioned ambition.

She wasn't a Muggle-born, not really, but after being raised as one, she still felt herself one. Still felt like the House noted to prize ambition _and_ tradition was an off-limits thing, filled with the sort of foreboding only read about in horror novels. Still didn't think of someone who belonged in this opulent world wherein Houses and blood status even mattered.

In her heart, Hermione Granger—not Dagworth, Granger—was still a Muggle-born. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, potentially . . . potentially being one of the first Muggle-borns in history to be sorted into Slytherin House.


End file.
